


Round Table 2: The Sequel

by secace



Series: Reincarnation AU [1]
Category: Arthurian Literature - Fandom, Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Le Morte d'Arthur - Thomas Malory
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Gen, Phone Theft, crime at the ren fair, groupchat shenanigans, just take my word for it that a lot of stuff happens, possible usurpation of the british crown, those fuckers have it coming tho, ya kno how it goes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 55,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22102807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secace/pseuds/secace
Summary: reincarnation au but instead of angst its just shenanigans. Arthur tries to take back his throne, and everyone else tries to not die as much as they did last time. Nothing much is accomplished.
Series: Reincarnation AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664989
Comments: 169
Kudos: 106





	1. Phone Theft and 125 Gala Apples

> Bedivere: so,
> 
> Bedivere: there’s some kind of big news
> 
> Gawain: wow that’s not a stressful thing to text me at all.
> 
> Gawain: seriously what is it???
> 
> Bedivere: your uncle wants it delivered in person
> 
> Bedivere: hes not sure how you’re going to react
> 
> Bedivere: are you busy this afternoon?
> 
> Gawain: im busy stressing the fuck out over whatever vague ‘big news’ i apparently cant handle over text!
> 
> Gawain: also if ur gonna come over u have to take some apples.
> 
> Bedivere: what?
> 
> Gawain: ill tell u when ur over. you get to explain ur thing in person, so do i.

* * *

“Jesus Christ. How much did that cost?”

“I’m afraid to check.”

“Walk me through it,” Bedivere said, gesturing to the gigantic crate currently taking up the entire kitchen counter, “the thought process that led you to order an entire bushel- that’s one hundred and twenty-five total- Gala apples online with rush shipping. I genuinely- I have to know.”

Gawain looked sheepish, “I’m not gonna lie to you. I was slightly drunk at 2 am yesterday and I just got really into thinking about globalization and things sort of spiralled from there- Look- It’s cool though! We had to wait for months or years to get anything and now I can get a crate full of apples in one day without leaving my apartment! You don’t think it’s amazing?”

“In theory, yeah, but I don’t feel the need to test it.”

“Are you going to tell me your thing or are you just going to keep criticizing my life and my choices?”

“Very well,” He agreed, though he was reluctant. Stalling, he surveyed the kitchen for something to find fault with. The kitchen was huge and all stainless steel and granite countertops, because, to everyone's secret annoyance, Gawain had managed to be born into a fabulously wealthy family twice in a row.

Twenty-three years ago, King Arthur had crawled out of a lake in Wales like a swamp monster from an old Hollywood movie, and over the next year, his knights had been reborn across the British isles, regaining their memories in stops and starts, some more than others. Some inexorable force drew them to London, where their King had set up his Homebase. But Arthur refused to do anything until everyone was accounted for, and there was still one very significant absence.

“I don’t mean to rush you, but I do have a class at noon,”

Fine. No preamble, just rip off the bandage.

“Your uncle found Lancelot yesterday. Got his contact information, but for obvious reasons not a lot of people know- only Arthur, Kay and I.”

“I see,” Gawain said after a pause, seeming quite calm, “If you would excuse me to the other room for one moment?”

“Uh, sure.”

He left the kitchen and closed the door gently behind him. There was a long silence, then the sound of glass breaking, what sounded like several heavy objects in a row being thrown against a wall, then loud swearing, then silence again. Gawain finally reemerged dishevelled and out of breath.

“I’m fine. This is...fine.”

“...right,” Bedivere eyed him doubtfully, “It’s just that you seem pretty not fine, what with the screaming and the breaking things, and all, and I’m a bit concerned because you sort of, you know, went fucking insane and murdered a bunch of people and sent him his cousin’s head in a box like an insane person.”

“Not my finest moment, I will admit,” he ran a hand through his hair, which was somewhat in disarray, “but you can tell my uncle not to worry, I’m not going to do anything crazy. Water under the bridge, right? That’s what we all agreed.”

“Right, yes- good,”

Bedivere was so relieved at his acceptance that he allowed himself to be talked into taking way to much fruit, and went away ready to assure the king that no beheadings would take place. He didn’t notice that they had switched phones till he was home, at which point it was too late.

* * *

It would have been nice to say that stealing Bedivere’s phone and pretending to be him to the king in order to get Lancelot’s address, and then ditching class to drive across Britain and show up uninvited at his house was the craziest thing he had ever done, but it wouldn’t be true. That being said, it had to make the top ten at least. Right between stealing a magic horse from a Saxon king and making out with a literal pagan god in an attempt to escape having his head cut off. In fairness, the universe had rewarded him for those incidents with a free horse, axe, belt, and kisses, so maybe it was a good idea.

It wasn’t feeling like an especially good idea as Gawain hit decline on yet another call from his uncle to the phone that didn’t belong to him. In his defence though, Bedivere should have set a password, that one was really on him.

After three hours of driving in anxious silence, he pulled up to a stop in front of a solidly middle-class apartment complex in Leicester. Absentmindedly declining another frantic call, this one from Kay, he stared up at the building with a heady combination of dread, guilt and hope. It was 3 pm on a Tuesday, the chances he wouldn’t be home were high. And even with all the long drive to consider it, Gawain still had no idea what he would do if he was, in fact, home.

What he should do was turn around right now, give Bedivere his phone back and lie his way out of his uncle’s ire. Instead of doing that he put the car in park and checked the address again to confirm, then got out and walked over to the red brick building.

_This is something an insane person would do_ , he reminded himself in the elevator as he selected the button for the third floor, _you are an insane person_ , he thought desperately in the hallway as he scanned the numbers for the one on the address, _I can’t believe they let you rule most of Scotland_ , he marked with chagrin as he knocked thrice on the door.

It opened. The address was correct.

His phone rang and neither said a word as he let it go to voicemail. Gawain felt as if his mind were somehow very far from his physical location.

They likely would have stood in painful silence till kingdom come if not for the smoke. And after 1500 years the first words he spoke to the man who had ended his first life were,

“Is there something burning?”

* * *

When he woke up that morning all he thought he’d have to manage was going to one class and getting rid of 125 Gala apples, not discovering new, heretofore unknown types of emotion while sitting on the couch of a man who had been his best friend in a former life before killing him and most of his family, eating burnt toast. And yet.

“So,” Lancelot said from across the coffee table, “you’re here. Physically, in my home, where I live. Which you have the address of because, by your own admission, you stole Bedivere’s phone and lied to your uncle and liege lord. Why? Why all of that?”

Gawain studied the table and mentally asked himself the same question. “I’ll be honest, I think I came intending to punch you in the face, at the very least.”

“...are you going to?” he asked, looking nervous.

“You’ve welcomed me into your home and fed me sub-par toast, I think it would be breaking the rules of hospitality to punch you now.”

“Oh, good,” he said distantly.

They took turns staring at the table, and then at each other with some distrust, whenever they believed the other to be looking at the table. After several false starts where he opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again as if struck, Lancelot was the first to speak.

“I- I want to say I’m sorry, and I am, but it wasn’t enough before, how could it ever be? I am sorry. I am so, so sorry-” he broke off, miserable.

“Stop, I should be the one apologizing for being an insane person,” Gawain considered their current circumstances and added, “In both lives now, I guess.”

Lancelot frowned, unconvinced, face still turned down to the table.

“Hang the coffee table! Stop staring at the table and look at me.” Gawain waited until he did so, then continued more gently, “Didn’t you read my letter? I’ve already forgiven you, for what was barely your fault, to begin with. Whatever I said to you before, forget it, please, it was-” _whatever I thought would make you angry or hurt enough to kill me_ , but that was a bit dark, “It was said in grief, rather than truth. Can we both just pretend to forget?”

After a long moment, he nodded.

“...Thanks for that. I didn’t really understand the table bit, but thank you for the rest of it,” hesitantly, he stuck out a hand, “I’ll forgive your atrocities if you’ll forgive mine?”

“Deal.”

They shook on it, and Gawain took the opportunity to move next to him and snatched his phone from his pocket.

“I’m gonna put your number in your phone if you don’t mind? And everyone else's, while I’m at it?”

Lancelot gestured to go ahead.

“Wow, you’re fast at that,” he noted.

“Not to brag, but I have a lot of practice putting my number in people’s phones.”

He smiled, “You haven’t changed at all then,”

“Neither have you. You’re still a crybaby.”

He flushed and wiped his eyes, “and I bet you still have an awful temper,”

“I bet you still fall asleep in weird places.”

“I bet you still run after stray dogs like a little kid.”

Laughing, Gawain returned the phone and tried not to think about the other phone he needed to return, and the lectures that surely awaited him back in London. “I missed you.”

* * *

Bedivere added (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Round Table 2 the Sequel

Bedivere set the nickname for (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Lancelot

> Mordred: tirra lirra the fuck off you ratatouille cunt
> 
> Gawain: oh jesus christ
> 
> Lancelot: ...do you just have a list of mean things to say to me or do they come to you in the moment?
> 
> Mordred: In the moment
> 
> Mordred: Intense personal dislike fuels my creativity
> 
> Lancelot: you’re welcome for being your muse I guess
> 
> Mordred: Don’t make it weird you shitty old man
> 
> Bedivere: why are you like this

Mordred has been muted

> Gawain: we probably should have done that a while ago
> 
> Gawain: also give me my fucking phone back gwalchmei
> 
> Gawain: the messages I have received… harrowing


	2. Notifications and Some Light Trespassing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> text-notification based anxiety, accidental invasion of private property, moving house, and a trip down memory lane

Tristan added (xxx)xxx-xxxx to The Only Group Chat That Matters

Tristan set the nickname for (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Lancelot

> Tristan: hell yeah the whole gangs here now
> 
> Palamedes: I would like to request, yet again, that you remove me from this group chat.
> 
> Tristan: nope
> 
> Gareth: oh my god finally!!!! Lancelot you were the glue that held us all together and we never realized!!!
> 
> Gareth: also im not mad about you killing me, its cool :)
> 
> Lancelot: …thank you? i’m sorry?

Dinadan set the nickname for Lancelot to Lancethot

> Lancethot: please change it back

Dinadan set the nickname for Lancethot to Lancelot

Dinadan set the nickname for Gareth to Lancelot

Dinadan set the nickname for Tristan to Lancelot

Dinadan set the nickname for Palomedes to Lancelot

Dinadan removed from admin

> Dinadan: a tragedy in six parts

* * *

He would have to move to London, that he decided almost immediately. Certainly, there were some who chose not to be involved, cut off contact and moved far away- his cousin Bors, Aglovale and Lamorak the sons of Pellinore, and Constantine, Arthur’s disastrous successor, had been found and then unfound, left to build new lives and to forget their first ones.

But for him it was out of the question. There was only one thing he was good at, only one thing he could do, and even then there was a less than ideal amount of dismemberment. There was some unidentifiable yet fundamental character flaw that made Lancelot a peerless knight and also got him banned from multiple chain retail locations and labelled a ‘flight risk’. Knighthood was the only viable career, and so he had to move to London.

Gawain skipped class again a few days later to help him move, though he didn’t even have a permanent situation yet and was just staying in one of the two spare rooms in his ridiculously bougie London flat. But Arthur was finally gearing up do something now that everyone was accounted for, and he had to be there for it, even if the reentry into court was horribly stressful and everyone hated him.

Since last Tuesday Lancelot had been added to a total of 14 group chats, received six tearful apologies and gave twenty-seven, been propositioned twice and challenged to fights thrice. The notification sound was now enough to send him into a state of near-panic, and after an hour of sitting in the passenger seat, constantly checking it, he was about ready to lock the damn thing in the trunk and have done with it.

“Are they always this active?” He said, feeling frayed.

“Blowing up your phone?” Gawain asked sympathetically.

> Agravaine: can u guys unmute mordred bc when he cant annoy yall he fucking annoys me
> 
> Galahad: seconded
> 
> Lancelot: uh. hey
> 
> Galahad: die in a fire
> 
> Lancelot: okay good talk

He closed the phone.

“Yes. I haven’t had a moment of peace since Tuesday.”

“Sorry about that. I tried to tell my brothers to be less terrible but, you know, it never worked before.”

Mordred has been unmuted

> Mordred: i agree with the dying in a fire thing
> 
> Mordred: also @Bedivere fuck you i cant b silenced
> 
> Bedivere: what the hell? im not even the one who muted you
> 
> Mordred: oh shit a murder mystery
> 
> Mordred: i WILL get to the bottom of this crime

“Can you stop for a minute? I’m gonna put it in the trunk,” Lancelot said, giving up.

He pulled over, “Hell yeah, I’ll put mine in there too, solidarity.”

“You don’t have to- the GPS-”

Gawain slammed the trunk down, “Fuck the GPS, getting lost is an adventure. You have to learn to appreciate the journey, Du Loc.”

“I’d appreciate the journey more if we would listen to something that wasn’t ABBA.”

“You know I could abandon you on the side of the road, if you…” he trailed off, looking far off with a curious expression.

“Look,” he pointed across the freeway to the grassy hills of southeast England beyond, crisscrossed with farmland and dotted with grazing animals, power lines buzzing overhead.

“Do you remember this place?”

He was about to reply in the negative, but then recognition dawned, “My God. Is that Badon Hill?”

Of course, they had to go see. The highway was too busy to cross, but there was a wide, old-fashioned brick culvert a few hundred yards down which, luckily, was not ankle-deep with brackish water as most usually were. The arched passage was low enough that he had to duck low, to Gawain’s delight.

“Oh did you hit your head? You tall fucking asshole?”

Gawain took it as a personal affront that he had the audacity to be half a foot taller, and was relishing in the opportunity to watch him suffer for it.

“Next time you need help getting something off a high shelf- Ow!- remember that comment.”

They had to climb out of a drainage ditch and over two sets of fences to reach what was surely private property. It was impossible to tell the massive conflict that had taken place there; the plain where the armies had met was now farmland bisected by the highway, whose distant roar replaced the din of battle. Surely, deep under the soil, there were bones and bits of ancient blades and armour, but they were undisturbed and undiscovered.

“This is about the spot that I was when the fighting started. You were,” Lancelot pointed off a few hundred yards, “there. Do you remember?”

“Not a bit, it’s all a blur,” Gawain admitted, and promptly found himself being dragged about the grassy hilltop as Lancelot described the battle, in perfect detail, gesturing wildly and tramping all over the area to emphasize the account.

_The archers were here, near the crest of the hill, footsoldiers there by the ditch, and there. On the first day you and your men were here, then moved to the left flank…_ they wandered over hill and dale, ducking under a barbed wire fence and over an older stone wall, past oblivious grazing animals and flustered wildlife as the sun sunk lower in the sky.

“See, over by that, uh, bored-looking cow, that was the thick of it on the second day, that’s where Bedivere was,”

“‘They fell by the hundred before Bedwyr of the Perfect-Sinew...furious was his nature with sword and shield,’ the poets said,” Gawain added helpfully.

“Yes! That was after a charge, from, uh. Hold up. Why is it so dark?”

“It’s night time. It happens sometimes.”

“How long-”

“Four hours.”

“Gosh,” Lancelot said, confused as to how that had happened. He glanced around, as coming out of a daze, “this is definitely private property, huh?”

“Afraid so. I saw a very aggressive sign by where the first charge began. ‘Keep out, trespassers beware of vicious dogs,’ that sort of thing.”

They stood in chagrined silence.

“Do you… do you hear barking?”

They didn’t stop running till they reached the car.

* * *

> Agravaine: so how many times can i punch him in the face before you stop me
> 
> Gawain: none!
> 
> Mordred: unrealistic
> 
> Gawain: fine, once
> 
> Gawain: but not in the face, its too pretty
> 
> Agravaine: how bout the dick
> 
> Gaheris: he does already have a son, like he doesn’t need other kids right?
> 
> Gawain:...
> 
> Gawain: yeah i guess
> 
> Gareth: seriously gawain??? Even you???
> 
> Gareth: NO ONE PUNCH ANYONE
> 
> Mordred: oh, grow up
> 
> Mordred set the nickname for Gareth to Lancelot Apologist
> 
> Mordred removed from admin
> 
> Mordred: you know its true tho

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is pretty short, the next one will b longer and might even have... plot... perhaps


	3. Renaissance Fair Crimes and a Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jousting illegally, sword distribution, note-taking, destruction of furniture, and some quests

> Lancelot: its sort of sad how like
> 
> Lancelot: the only thing im really good at is now totally irrelevant?
> 
> Lancelot: im still the best knight in the world but no one cares because its an outdated skillset
> 
> Lancelot: I mean how often in the 21st century do people hold tournaments
> 
> Gawain: damn. that’s a good point.
> 
> Lancelot: yeah
> 
> Lancelot: unrelated to that but did you know that they have little prison cells on-site for people who do crimes at the renaissance fair
> 
> Gawain: uh oh

* * *

The King was almost impressed. “Did you win?”

“Er, yes, technically,” Lancelot said, personally unable to consider any of the previous day’s events a real victory.

“He kicked their fucking asses, my lord,” Gawain broke in, ”I had to convince three separate people to drop assault charges, there was real blood and broken bones and everything. Great stuff.”

Lancelot looked uncomfortable with the rather bloodthirsty praise, “anyway, that’s why I wasn’t here yesterday.”

There was some half-hearted and mostly sardonic clapping before bored silence resumed, which Arthur took as a signal to begin the meeting. They were gathered in the conference room of a hotel they used for free from 5-7 pm every weekday, because Gawain’s father owned the hotel. They’d been meeting regularly for the past few years, ever since there had been enough of them to call it a meeting, but they had never done much of anything, due to Arthurs insistence that every knight be found first.

“To start off, now that all the knights are present, I’m taking suggestions on how I can reclaim my rightful throne and usher in a new era of prosperity and greatness for my people, so if anyone has anything on that, I would love to hear it.”

Palamedes tentatively raised a hand, “I know this is a stupid question, but have you actually tried just asking for your throne back?”

“I sent a mailer to the local city council in 1999, but they never got back to me.”

“Seriously? That’s it?” Agravaine questioned.

“I mean, It’s not like I could storm the gates of Buckingham Palace, especially since you all were like… infants at the time,” he answered lamely.

“My being a baby didn’t stop you from doing crime last time around,” Mordred pointed out, not looking up from his phone.

“Can we not do this right now please?”

“You-”

Kay slammed his clipboard down on the table with a crash, “Alright! Great meeting everyone. Unfortunately, that’s all the time we have. Same place tomorrow, now get the fuck out.”

“Wait, we just started,” Arthur protested, but everyone was already rising to leave. He was dismayed. Everything was supposed to be different once all the knights were back, but they still made no progress, and it felt as if no one was taking it seriously. A stubborn streak long-buried resurfaced as he looked out over an endless series of unproductive days while his kingdom crumbled around him.

“Lancelot, bar the door.”

Confused but obedient, he did so, using a metal standing lamp as a bar through the vertical loop handles o the double doors.

“Now everyone sit down,” Arthur ordered, and they instinctually listened.

He surveyed the bored and confused faces around the wooden conference table, which was, unfortunately, ovular. These people had all pledged themselves to him fought for him, and most had died for him. Some had actively betrayed him, a few had died in unrelated blood feuds or weird accidents, but they were all here now.

“Over a thousand years ago I tried to build a better world, a fairer one, a safer one. I failed, and many of you died because of it. But now we have a second chance, to avoid the mistakes of our past and accomplish what we set out to do. I hope you are with me, but if you aren’t, if all you want is to forget and build a new life in this new age, then you can leave right now.”

“Actually they can’t, remember, you had Lancelot bar the door,” Mordred pointed out.

Arthur frowned, “Lancelot, unbar the door.”

“Uh,” he eyed it appraisingly, “I don’t think I can do that without breaking either the lamp or the handles. Probably both.”

“There is a back door, my lord,” Gawain said helpfully before Lancelot could destroy anything.

“Right,” Arthur took a deep breath and regathered his dignity, “anyone who isn’t with me can leave right now, via the back door.”

“It’s by the vending machines,” Gawain added. No one moved. After a long pause, Arthur nodded. Thank god.

“Agravaine, take notes,” He said and began pacing the room.

“Why do I have to take notes?” Agravaine grumbled.

“Because I said so and I am your king. Besides, you have the nicest handwriting, surprisingly,” Arthur waited for him to get out a pen and paper then resumed pacing, “the first step is obviously to become king again. The problem is that there is apparently already a royal family and a monarch.”

“Bomb Buckingham palace,” Mordred suggested.

His father was appaled. “Absolutely not!”

“I’m writing it down.”

“You can’t bomb Buckingham palace,” Gawain chided.

“Thank you, Gawain-”

“It’d be better to kill them publically, in a duel, to show your dominance.”

“Would someone who is not an Orkney like to suggest something?” Arthur pleaded.

“Maybe try asking politely again? Perhaps the post lost your first letter.”

“Thank you, Palomedes. Anyone else?”

Kay frowned, thoughtful. “At the root, what we have is a resource problem.”

“Oh?”

“No castle, no army, no magic birthright, no wizard, no armour, no horses, no money outside Gawain’s fucking trust fund, we don’t even have our swords. How can we expect to conquer Britain?”

Gawain perked up, “actually, I do have a sword. I bought a ton of them while I was at the ren fair bailing out Lancelot, they’re in the trunk of my car right now.”

Arthur looked at his nephew in bemusement, “and you didn’t think to mention that till now? Nevermind, great work Gawain. Take your brothers and bring them all here, please.”

After a frankly staggering amount of swords were carted in from the parking lot, with an additional ten minutes for arguing over who got which one, and another twenty minutes of swinging them around excitedly and accidentally breaking furniture, Arthur managed to regain control of the meeting. He hadn’t taken one of the blades. Neither had Gawain, Mordred or Galahad. They were waiting, like he was he supposed, for their own to return to them.

He gestured to Kay, who banged on the table several times to get everyone’s attention.

“That’s one thing down. What else do we need?” Agravaine read back the list. Castle, army, birthright, wizard, armour, horses, money.

“Change ‘castle’ and ‘horses’ to ‘home base’ and ‘transportation’.”

The corrections were made.

“What’s the highest priority?”

Lionel raised a hand, realized no one else had raised their hand to speak, and put it back down, “I think wizard. Party balance-wise, we have like 12 fighters, six paladins and zero magic-users.”

“You are such a fucking nerd,” Agravaine said, without much real malignity, “this is why I bullied you in high school.”

“Wait, you two went to the same high school?” Hector interrupted.

Arthur clapped his hands together to get their attention, “let’s stay on topic please,” then he turned to Lionel, “but did you actually go to the same high school? That’s crazy! Did you know, or had you not remembered yet?”

Lionel sighed, “yes, and no, not yet. Can we move on?”

“Right. Magic-users. Let’s make a list of candidates.”

“Gandalf.”

“Not real, Percy. Anyone else?”

No one spoke up. He had to do everything himself. “Let’s start with the basics. Merlin, Morgan Le Fey, Nimue, Vivian, Morgause.”

Lancelot shifted, nervous, “I know where Merlin is, but, I’ll be honest, he should stay there.”

“I’ll second that,” Pelleas said quickly, “that guy’s a creep and he’s in creep jail forever, for good reason.”

“...okay, while I’m gonna need details later, I’ll accept it for now. Morgan?”

“In Avalon, probably, Morgause too,” Mordred glanced at his brothers, “I would not condone trying to recruit my mother even a little bit, but Morgan is worth a try.”

Arthur nodded, also not wanting to see Morgause ever again, “Okay. Gentlemen, I’m glad to announce that I am presenting the first new quest for the new Round Table.”

“Oh here we fucking go,” Dinadan muttered.

Arthur pretended not to hear. “Lancelot, Pelleas,” he pointed in emphasis, “you two will search for the ladies of the lake. I will look for Morgan, and I’ll take Mordred with me.”

“What?!” Both Mordred and Owain said in unison.

“He’s her favourite nephew and he knows her magic.”

“But I’m her son!”

 _You also aren’t useful in non-zoological situations_ he though but did not say, “I need you to stay here and help keep everyone under control while I’m gone. Gawain is in charge, you’re second in command.”

Kay frowned, “wait, I’m your Senechal, and Bedivere is your Marshal. One of us should be in command.”

“As my Senechal, you are in charge of procuring armour. And I think we all know that if you’re off doing something Bedivere will go too, whether I ask him to or not.”

“That isn’t true,” Bedivere said.

“Yes, it is,” everyone said, because it was.

Assignments made, the first remotely productive meeting they’d ever had concluded, and they all went off, via the back door, to prepare for their separate tasks.

* * *

> Gawain: would you please stop being terrible in public?
> 
> Gawain: if you guys dont watch it ill add lancelot to our group chat to punish you
> 
> Gareth: do it!
> 
> Mordred: we’d make a new one without you
> 
> Gareth: wait, just you aggy and gaheris?
> 
> Agravaine: gaheris isnt invited
> 
> Gawain: I hate to break it to you guys but a group chat of two is just regular-ass texting
> 
> Gaheris: congrats aggs, you reinvented texting!
> 
> Agravaine: shut the fuck up!
> 
> Gawain: final warning
> 
> Agravaine: I literally hate you all so much
> 
> Gawain: thats it

Gawain added (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Orkney Bros

Gawain set the nickname for (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Lancelot

> Gareth: wheres ur god now agravaine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so this is the last chapter that'll b posted so close together lol i wrote like all of the first 3 in one go and have just been editing them so now im caught up and have to like... write new stuff. so sorry for like spamming, last one for at least like a week probably
> 
> also cukibola thank you for clarifying the ladies of the lake lol, they were becoming plot relevant and i had no idea who was who


	4. A Road Trip and 29 Pets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crying, Naps, An Animal Army, and a Very Successful Meeting

> Lancelot: HOW
> 
> Lancelot: how did you guys put up with me
> 
> Gawain: Pelleas is still… like that then huh
> 
> Lancelot: yes
> 
> Lancelot: also your name is coming up a lot what did you do
> 
> Tristan: wait what is Pelleas doing
> 
> Lancelot: crying and talking about love? I think?
> 
> Tristan: well I was already used to that from Palomides
> 
> Palomides: …
> 
> Dinadan: stones, glass houses yall. tristan u wrote some pretty mopey songs, and gawain u get trashed and whine about bertilak every xmas
> 
> Dinadan: im literally the only valid person in the world

* * *

“...She hates me, I’m sure she wishes he hadn’t married me, it was only for convenience because I was awful and creepy and my father worked so hard so I could be a knight and I threw it away, and I never got the chance to apologize to Ettarde, and...”

“Wow, yeah,” Lancelot said, glaring at the map. Pelleas was crying, again. _Is this what hanging out with me was like? Good Lord_.

“This doesn’t look familiar at all.”

They were looking for the magical underwater lake village he’d grown up in with Vivian, hoping that where one lake woman had been, two still would be. They were a train ride, two cabs and three hours of hiking through woods and fields into, if not the worst, at least one of the most boring quests ever, and he wasn’t even sure they were at the right lake. Pelleas certainly wasn’t helping with anything.

It had started off alright, but he had taken some both literal and conversational wrong turns at some point along that led the polite small talk to weeping and turned two kilometres into twelve. Now even if they found the ladies immediately, they’d be trudging back in the dark. And everything he said to Pelleas seemed to make things worse, which was an unfortunate talent of his.

Remarkably though, they still had cell service.

> Lancelot: hey this is a long shot but ANY ideas how to make someone (Pelleas) stop crying?
> 
> Gawain: well don’t say you’ll be his wingman and help him get w ettarde then sleep with her instead bc that was a bad scene
> 
> Gaheris: whos ettarde. Is that the girl that gave you the ‘baby slut’ shirt bc she was great
> 
> Gawain: no? That was my high school girlfriend, wrong millennium
> 
> Agravaine: well sorry casanova its hard to keep up sometimes
> 
> Gawain: jealous?
> 
> Agravaine: fuck off. We cant all be models.
> 
> Gareth: i hate to break it to you, but you look very similar, i think its ur personality thats the problem
> 
> Mordred: HIS MARRIAGE WAS NEVER CONSUMATED
> 
> Agravaine: i told you that in confidence!
> 
> Mordred: im confident that its hilarious

“Let’s take a break,” he suggested, wondering why he’d ever thought the Orkneys would be helpful in this situation. Or any situation that didn’t involve murder.

Pelleas slumped against a tree, still a bit teary. “Does everyone feel like they are fundamentally a bad person or is that… just me?”

“Look, Pelleas, it seems like you have a lot going on,” _that’s an understatement_ , “Maybe you should have this conversation with Nimue herself when we find her.”

“That’ll never happen. My first quest in a thousand years and I’ve failed it,” he said, but for what it was worth he was no longer crying.

Lancelot looked at the map again, turning it over and over for a while. “I thought it was this lake, but now I’m not sure. A lot of things have changed since I was a kid.”

They looked out over the water with trepidation.

“There’s no way the enchantment is still active, is there?” Pelleas asked, poking the surface with a stick and finding it as expected.

“Nope.”

“Well, how did you normally find magical women? Because Nimue sort of found me.”

He shrugged. “Usually I just went to sleep in the woods and woke up kidnapped by sorceresses. Sorcerri? Nevermind.”

“Why didn’t you stop sleeping in the woods after the first time?”

“Look,” he closed the map and considered hitting Peleas with it, “that’s none of your business. What I’m saying is, I think it’s worth a try.”

“Wait, do you… actually think taking nap will work?”

“Maybe not, but it can’t hurt,” he said, getting defensive. Taking a nap and seeing if things had resolved themselves by the time he woke up perhaps wasn’t the best strategy, but considering how much collateral damage resulted from him being awake, it also wasn’t the worst. He'd utilized it many times and only about half of them had ended in kidnapping, injury, and getting kissed by strangers. Those were pretty good odds in his opinion.

“It’s not going to work, and then we’ll be eaten by wolves or bears or something!”

“There aren’t wolves in Britain anymore.”

“Just axe murderers,” Pelleas said darkly.

After a bit of thought they both independently came to the conclusion that at least if they were axe-murdered they wouldn’t have to talk to each other any longer, so perhaps it was worth a try. Lancelot folded the map up and put it in his pocket, then lay down in the mossy hollow of a tree, ignoring Pelleas, and went to sleep.

* * *

Back in London, Gawain was trying to hold a meeting, and he thought it was going very well. No, they hadn’t accomplished anything per se, but it was wildly successful by his own metric, developed from decades of dealing with his family, which was measured purely by mortality rate. So far no had died, and that meant, as far as he was concerned, that he was doing spectacularly.

The problem they were working on was that of recruitment, having come to the conclusion that a few dozen people was likely not enough for a successful coup. They had a whiteboard set up which read as follows:

> ~~cloning~~ one lancelot is enough also we dont know how
> 
> ~~propaganda~~ probably immoral also we dont know how
> 
> ~~necromancy~~ seems likely to backfire horribly also we dont know how

Owain spoke up. “What if we trained an animal army? That would be cool.”

“That’s so fucking dumb,” Agravaine said, writing it down reluctantly.

“Well, there’s no need to be mean!”

Agravaine sneered, “What are you gonna do, go home and cry to your twenty cats like a sad old spinster?”

“That’s actually a pretty sexist stereotype,” Gawain pointed out and was ignored.

“I don’t have twenty cats, I have five, that’s a reasonable number.”

“Yeah, but don’t you also have a dog? And like, one of those long cats?” Percival asked.

Owain flushed, “Two dogs. And they are called ferrets. Yes, I have one.”

“And a snake, right?” Gawain added, temporarily giving up on fixing Agravaine, “also a bunch of birds.”

“Two ball pythons and a boa constrictor, six finches, a canary and a mated pair of ravens,” Owain admitted, having realized at this point it was too late to defend his claim that he had the normal amount of pets, and maybe once everyone was done being critical he’d at least get to talk about them.

Palomides looked concerned, “That’s… that’s twenty.”

“Twenty-nine counting the fish and the rabbits.”

“Gosh, how’d you even think of enough names?” Percival asked.

Owain suddenly took on a bit of a deer in the headlights look, “Look, I got most of them before I knew you guys were real, and I thought I was just crazy, and then, well, I already had sort of a naming scheme….”

“No,” Gawain gasped, struggling to keep a straight face, “Tell me you didn’t.”

Poor Owain nodded reluctantly. His cousin burst out laughing, the rest of them looking at him with a combination of morbid curiosity and secondhand embarrassment.

“Which… which one am I?” Agravaine asked, which was the question they had all been privately pondering.

“The ferret.”

He looked disappointed. “Damn, I wanted to be a dog.”

“Furry,” Dinadan said. Anyone else may have been cautious about insulting the notoriously prickly and violent Agravaine in front of so many people, but Dinadan was immune from this fury. It was a power dearly bought and he used it to the fullest.

“Should I write a song about how you want to be a dog?”

Gaheris chimed in, “You should work in the fact that he’s a-”

“Aaand, this is over,” Agravaine announced, “All of it. Knighthood, the king, all of it, it’s just over. We had a good run! Well, an okay run. The run sucked. I’m fucking leaving.”

And, chalking this one up as a success, Gawain ended the meeting.

* * *

Galahad: okay I have to ask. Which animal am I.

Owain: don’t get mad

Galahad: not encouraging but I promise I won’t.

Owain: so one of the ravens is albino and that one is mordred and you are the other one

Galahad: …

Galahad: I genuinely am at a loss for words.

Owain: Arthur is a succulent i keep on my desk

Galahad: Well then I guess it could be worse?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is morgan hell yeah hell yeah


	5. Family Bonding and the Destruction of a Midsize Sedan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan, DIY magic, a haunted petrol station, and a very unlucky car

> Mordred: you know i said ur whole absolution through penance thing was weird self-flagellation catholic guilt nonsense
> 
> Mordred: but i'm definitely being punished for something rn
> 
> Galahad: probably all the murder.
> 
> Mordred: no, its because i took gods name in vain, even though you warned me not to!
> 
> Mordred: obviously its the murder
> 
> Galahad: the sarcasm is not helping your case.
> 
> Mordred: the GPS just keeps saying “recalculating” RECALCULATING WHAT MAAM
> 
> Galahad: try praying :)
> 
> Mordred: ur a dick, u know that?

* * *

They were going to have to ask for directions. For the third time.

“Maybe we should ask if anyone saw a crazy old man crawl out of a lake.”

“Stop calling me an old man. Yesterday a barista said I was ‘a dilf’ and wrote her number on my cup,” Arthur said proudly, though he wasn’t entirely sure what it meant.

Mordred looked disgusted, “Yeah stop the car, I’m leaving, I can walk back.”

“Stop being dramatic, we’ll find her soon,” Arthur assured him, purposely misunderstanding.

“The GPS is fucking shitting itself to death on the dashboard and I honestly think that last petrol station we stopped at was haunted.”

“Don’t be so grim,” Arthur admonished, though he sort of agreed.

“I’m serious, if we ask someone about it they’ll be like…” Mordred gestured dramatically and affected an expression of mock horror, “there hasn’t been a petrol station there for twenty years! Not since… The Accident.” He dropped his hands in a huff.

“That hideous old ghost probably gave us terrible directions so we’d get lost and die and he could harvest our flesh or something.”

“Well, at what according to you is my advanced age, it’s an honor if someone wants to harvest my flesh at all.”

“Ew!” Mordred said, laughing.

Arthur racked his brain for another thing to say that would be funny. He’d never been all that good at it, which was why he’d kept two people on staff purely for the purpose of making jokes.

“You could always stab me, it’s how I got to Avalon last time.”

“That isn’t funny,” Mordred said sharply. He was always cracking dark jokes about other’s deaths and transgressions, but he didn’t much like when the script was flipped it seemed.

“No, you’re right, I apologize.”

“Don’t.”

He chuckled, not unkindly, “Don’t apologize?”

“No!” Mordred insisted. He was staring intently out the window, in the manner not of someone trying to see something outside, but of trying very hard not to see something (someone) inside.

_Uh oh._

Mordred was only the fourth one he’d found, after Kay, Bedivere and Gawain. There had been a supremely uncomfortable mutual mental breakdown in the Tesco parking lot- screaming, crying, apologies, the immediate rescission and then reconferance of those apologies and finally a tentative reconciliation. Neither of them could go back to that particular Tesco, and Mordred was still at times openly resentful, but in the five years since, no stabbing had occurred, and Mordred’s bitterness was limited to caustic remarks, so everything was fine.

It was fine!

“Why shouldn’t I apologize?”

“You’ve damn well done it enough! I- I had a plan, a plot you know, throw myself on your mercy and be the most loyal, the best knight- prove that this time I could be trusted and earn your forgiveness-” he turned from the window to glare at his father, “and then YOU apologized. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that! You ruined everything!”

Arthur stared at him in surprise. “Well, I’m very sorry for saying sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin your plot.”

Mordred frowned, “You’re mocking me.”

“A little bit,” he admitted, “if you’re so serious about penance, how’s this: as recompense for your crimes, help me find Avalon.”

“Fine,” He tore the much hated GPS from the dash and tossed it into the backseat, “stop the car.”

“Why? What are you doing?” Arthur asked, pulling over.

He kicked the door open unnecessarily and jumped out,“What you fucking asked me to!”

 _Never contrite for long, is he?_ Arthur thought, putting the car in park and following his son over to the side of the road.

He had picked up a stick and was drawing something in the dirt. “Stand there,” he said absently, pointing vaguely, “face North. The challenger comes from the South, the defender from the North. Remember my brother’s whole thing with the Green Man?”

Arthur moved accordingly, “Well, yes, but how will it help us find a specific lake?”

Looking impatient, Mordred pointed to the dirt drawing. It looked like a blank venn diagram with three circles. Gesturing with the stick like a disgruntled college professor at a blackboard, he pointed to the first circle, “That’s Avalon- Tir Na Nog, Annwn, the otherworld what have you. This one is where we are,” he marked an x in the center circle, “the middle one, Midgard. The points where the circles touch are like the lake, passages, but you can pass through anywhere.”

“So… it’s not the particular body of water, it’s how you enter it?” Arthur asked, having decided that the third circle was a question for another day.

Mordred nodded, “when they took you there before, the priestesses opened the gate, but I don’t know how to do that, so we’ll have to sort of break through it,” he looked up from his dirt drawings crossly, “which would be a lot easier if you hadn’t had the bright idea to throw your Magic Sword connected to Avalon away!”

“The instructions on the hilt were very clear,” Arthur argued, “Take me up, then cast me away. What’s done is done, so how do we get there without Excalibur?”

He thought for a long moment. Then he looked at the car for another, even longer moment. “You are going to hate this,” he said, and told Arthur his plan.

“No, absolutely not.”

Mordred rolled his eyes, “What, afraid to get a scratch on your pristene fucking 2004 Nissan Altima? You asked for a solution and this is the one I have.” He stood, walked back over to the car and, without warning, kicked the side of it as hard as he could, leaving a significant dent.

“Why- Why the hell did you do that?!” Mordred shrugged. “Now the car’s already fucked up, so we might as well.”

“God, not the car- you could have broken your foot or-,” Arthur began, and stopped at the look of genuine surprise on Mordred’s face at his concern.

“If you think this will work I trust you.”

It was most likely an intentional act of emotional manipulation, but he felt guilty anyway. Which is how, a little over an hour later, he found himself filling the tank of his car with heavily doctored everclear. They had been forced to return to the strikingly haunted petrol station for supplies, and also snacks, and he’d ruined his shoes wandered around the riparian area looking for specific plants, but they were almost ready to do something incredibly stupid. The station’s attached convenience store didn’t carry greasepaint so Mordred was currently scrawling arcane symbols on the hood of the car using a tube of red lipstick.

“Okay, get in,” He said when he finished.

The car looked like it was attending a gilly-suit themed burlesque show for down on their luck sedans, and he was slightly concerned that the tank full of spiced, now magical everclear vodka would explode as soon as he turned the key, but Mordred seemed confident, so, cautiously, Arthur took the drivers set next to him and started the car. It came alive with a sick sputter and various other noises which were the opposite of encouraging.

“So I just…” he gestured to the random pond about half a kilometer ahead of them, behind several low wooden fences, “gun it?”

Mordred nodded. His face was serene, but Arthur noted with apprehension that he had a whiteknuckle grip on the door handle.

He floored the gas and the poor car leaped forward like a trained charger facing down its last battle before it’s put to pasture, all desperate and self-destructive fury, as it flew over the muddy earth and through the rotten wooden fences. _This was a terrible idea_ , he thought as the water drew nearer. _This is it, this is the end,_ he was sure, in that awful moment where the car, improbably, left the ground and hovered over the surface of the lake before it hit. There followed a great splash and a loud, distant noise, and then nothing.

* * *

They were sitting in the grass on the shore of a misty island. Arthur recognized it, hazily, for he had spent about fifteen hundred years there, though he was mostly asleep at the time. He did not remember arriving there, or even waking up. He had been sitting there, gazing out onto the brume and the water, for a very long time. Or perhaps about half an hour.

“Well, there’s no way I’m going to heaven and it’s too temperate for hell, so I think we made it,” Mordred said, a little surprised.

A voice rang out behind them, “Neat trick,”

“Hello, Morgan,” Arthur intoned without turning to look. She walked over, the shifting of her robes the only sound in the world as she sat between them and, disregarding the king, turning to her nephew.

“That was very clever, nice job,”

“Um. Thank you Auntie,” Mordred said, for once polite and with an unfamiliar differential expression.

“Of course, your strange vehicle was utterly destroyed, so not perfect, but good rune work.”

Arthur made a slightly strangled noise at that, which she ignored.

“Thanks very much,” he mumbled, and shot a desperate look at his father as if to ask why he wasn’t saying anything.

“I expect you’re wanting my help with something,” Morgan smiled like a cat.

“See,-”

“We weren’t-”

They both started at once, then halted. Mordred looked away, ceding the discussion. Far off in the distance, a raven called, and the men shivered.

“Yes, er- I’m trying to get my kingdom back and fulfil my destiny and all, and it’s not going very well.”

“Hm.” she said, and gestured for him to continue.

“I was thinking, last time I had Mer-” he noted her suddenly even more icy gaze and course corrected, “I had a magic, er, person, to help. And I was wondering if you would be interested in that position?”

She smirked. “Hang out with my baby brother and his annoying friends for eternity? How could I say no.”

Arthur was beginning to despair, but then, despite her comment, she turned from one of them to the other, considering, and nodded.

“We’ll give it a try- temporary basis. I’ve been wanting to explore this new modern world anyway.”

She stood and the mists cleared, and they were no longer on shore of the island, but that of the little lake in the Welsh countryside. Birdsong and the distant rumble of the motorway, background sounds they had not noticed the lack of till they returned, faded back in. Morgan stood out, now, against the farmland and plain shrubs, the broken bottles in the bushes and telephone poles on the horizon, an old and magical thing in a mundane landscape.

“My son is here as well, yes?”

Arthur responded in the affirmative.

“Good, then I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, and vanished, not in a puff of smoke but in a curling tongue of mist.

They both breathed a sigh of relief. Then they saw the smoking ruin of the poor, loyal Altima half submerged in the water and realized they had just been abandoned in the middle of nowhere without a car or cell service.

“Hike back to the haunted gas station?” Mordred asked grimly.

“Yup.”

* * *

> Bedivere: wait why do we need armour and swords its the 21st century, shouldn’t we have guns or something?
> 
> Kay: i asked art the same thing and he got really fucking offended
> 
> Kay: apparently its about being ‘on brand’
> 
> Bedivere: ….is he planning to sell merch? What?
> 
> Kay: oh god
> 
> Kay: dont give him any ideas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> classes start up again today so i thought id sneak in one more chapter b4 im buried in schoolwork and cant post as often. Also im mixing my limited folklore knowledge with straight up nonsense so dont think about it too hard.


	6. Morgan le Fay and Baked Goods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armour, innuendo, relevant and hurtful pop culture references, more free swords, and a seemingly endless meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> put the notes at the begining bc i wanted to apologize in advance for all the dick jokes in this chapter. next chapter there will be zero innuendos and at least three felonies, pinky promise

> Bedivere: hey do you know Morholt’s measurements
> 
> Gawain: about 11 cm erect
> 
> Bedivere: what?
> 
> Gawain: i know, hes really tall but its not even that big, i was surprised too
> 
> Bedivere: ARMOUR
> 
> Bedivere: FOR ARMOUR
> 
> Gawain: oh
> 
> Bedivere: jesus christ
> 
> Bedivere: why…?
> 
> Gawain: i dunno. we were already naked for unrelated reasons and it was just like, might as well
> 
> Bedivere: that raises additional questions
> 
> Bedivere: but i do not want the answers

* * *

They debriefed on their various quests the next afternoon in the board room. Lancelot had returned alone, which was a little shady, but according to him, it was because Pelleas had decided to live in the lake with his wife. The reunion had gone well they supposed- very well, considering how embarrassed Lancelot got when they tried to press for details. Vivian, however, was all in to help out the knights and was temporarily residing with her son in Gawain’s seemingly infinite flat. She was, Lancelot explained, going to be late.

“She said she’d be here around four because she’s bringing stuff, which I hope means magic stuff but she also did a lot of baking so I don’t know.”

“Oh hell yeah. We need more snacks because the vending machine is all fucked,” Mordred said.

Everyone looked at him with apprehension and in some cases open suspicion.

“Okay, someone,” he started, already on the defensive, “NOT me, someone, put a bunch of firecrackers in the vending machine, for a joke, and now it is just profoundly broken. But it wasn’t me. I can’t emphasize that enough.”

“Mordred,” the king said without missing a beat, “Apologize to Gawain for destroying his father’s hotel’s vending machine.”

“It’s really fine,” Gawain said, placatory as usual.

“No, he has to learn. Mordred, apologize. As your king and father, I command it.”

Since their road trip, Arthur had been on a parenting kick, but sadly the used bookstore by his house didn’t have any parenting books, and he didn’t understand how to order things on the internet. He had bought a book on puppy training instead, hoping the principles would be similar.

“Is that a clicker? Like for dogs?” Mordred asked, not apologizing.

“Well, er-”

And that’s when the doors slammed open, snapping the lamp that had been there for the past few days clean in half. Morgan arrived, fashionably late, accompanied by a crash of thunder and the flickering on and off of all the lights in the room in appropriately dramatic fashion. In the 24 hours since she had left Avalon she had totally embraced the 21st-century aesthetic, her long black braids cropped short, flowing dark robes replaced with torn jeans and a black leather bomber jacket, glowing eyes covered by a pair of reflective aviator sunglasses.

“Alright,” she said, “let’s start from the top. Arty you look like a sad old park ranger going through a divorce. Gawain, you look like a slutty cowboy,”

“Hell yeah, yeehaw.”

Mordred rolled his eyes, “it wasn’t a compliment.”

“Speaking of, Mordred, I see you’re dressed as the attendee of a boys private school in the 1800’s who moonlights as a Hot Topic employee.”

He flinched, “That was so specific.”

“Morgan, thank you very much for coming,” Arthur said, having just recovered from the park ranger comment.

“Of course,” she replied, then waved her hand and a chair appeared next to her, as if from thin air. It was not from thin air, it was from under Lancelot, who was now on the floor.

“There was an empty chair right next to me, you know. That wasn’t- you didn’t need to do that.”

She ignored him, taking her seat by Owain, who was the only one not surprised by her entrance.

> Mordred: what the fuck did you do
> 
> Owain: all i did was buy her a phone and show her the internet!
> 
> Mordred: she has been in the 21st century less than 24 hours and she's making relevant and hurtful pop culture references
> 
> Owain: I dont know either! Last night she still didn’t know what a car was!

“Owain. No phones at the table, please dear,” Morgan said, not sparing him a glance as she did so.

He panicked, almost dropped his phone, then made the split second decision that the best thing to do was to put as much distance as possible between himself and the offending object, and threw it clean across the room. There was a suspiciously ‘break-y’ sound, and he winced.

“I believe you have a list you’re working on?” Morgan asked, while her son went through all five stages of grief next to her.

Arthur nodded, relieved to start his meeting, though he suspected it was becoming Morgan’s meeting, “Agravaine, read the list.”

“Base, army, birthright, armour, transport, money,” he said, still resentful over being assigned secretary duty.

Morgan considered it. “Easiest one first,” she gestured at Kay and Bedivere, “You two have been collecting everyone’s measurements. Give them to me and I’ll have your metal clothes all ready by Monday-”

Agravaine interrupted her, “I don’t need new armour, I know where mine is,”

“Oh, not this again,” Gaheris muttered.

Agravaine was incensed. “The British Museum fucking stole it!”

“If you want something back from the British Museum you’ll have to get in line behind the rest of the world, Aggs,” Gawain said, in a tone which indicated this was not the first time they were having this conversation, “Besides, it’s still got a hole in it from where it was,” he looked at Lancelot, “stabbed.”

“Sorry.”

“I know how you could make it up to me-”

Arthur cut that line of discussion off, sensing its direction, “Lancelot I command you not to steal from the British Museum. Actually, don’t even get within 100 meters.”

“But-”

“Moving on!”

Morgan swiftly took back control of the assembly, despite Arthur’s best attempts at being authoritative. “What we want is to build suspense. Odd occurrences, magic slowly returning- that’s when the Once and Future King will rise again.”

“He’s been risen for over two decades, Morgan,” Kay pointed out.

“The media doesn’t have to know that. We need to start waking people up. Owain can go find his brother, for starters.”

“Oh, no,” Galahad muttered to Mordred as the sorceress continued to list pagan entities and assign them to associated knights.

“What’s wrong with Mabon?” Mordred though for a moment, “other than the fact that he’s a pagan god of sex and love, which is I guess antithetical to your whole thing. Alright, nevermind, question retracted.”

“Wait, why does Galahad hate Mabon?” Gaheris, who was sitting on Mordred’s other side, asked. He said it too loudly, and Morgan stopped as everyone turned to took at Galahad, including the terrifying sorceress mother of the deity in question.

“I don’t hate him,” he said, backtracking now that everyone’s attention was on him, “I just don’t- he’s not my favourite-”

“That’s odd, I’d think you’d be friends. You have so much in common. Well,” Dinadan amended, “one thing.”

Against his better judgement, Galahad asked, “And what would that be?”

“Sore knees.”

It took a good few seconds for it to sink in, and the poor knight went red in the face. The rest devolved into surprised laughter, groans and mild invectives of irritation, except for Percival, who just looked confused.

“Oh,” he said after consideration, “I get it. Because Galahad prays and Mabon-”

“I think everyone got it, Percy,” Gawain cut him off, not unkindly.

Thrice Arthur pounded his fist on the table to get their attention, and on the third, the much-abused object gave up the ghost. The table split on one side down a seam, and the two legs on either side of the breach splayed out, sending papers and cups flying. When the dust settled, they stood around the wreck in silent shock.

“The rest of the meeting,” Arthur said slowly, “shall be conducted from the standing position.”

“You chucklefucks have really done on a number on this place,” Morgan noted, looking around the room at the shattered lamp, busted door handles, sliced up chairs and demolished ovular table.

Gawain winced. “Yeah, my father is going to be… not pleased.”

Morgan tapped her finger on her palm, as quiet as a breath of wind but able somehow to command the room. “If I remember your list correctly, a new base of operations was already a priority. We’ll just have to move it up. This is a big one, and I’ll have to call in some favours. The Tylwyth Teg will magically rebuild your castle a bit every night, it’ll be a good PR moment. Then all I have to do is move it from Caer Leon to London.”

“You can do that?” Kay asked, speaking for everyone in that every person in the room was simultaneously glad she was on their side and wondering how they’d survived the brief periods when she hadn’t been.

“Yes, but I’ll need someone to draw a picture of Camelot for reference. Lancelot will do it,” Morgan said, to the surprise of everyone, not the least of all Lancelot himself, “once I kept him captive in my basement for six months and he decided to paint a comprehensive guide to his own darkest secret on the wall for no reason. This was an incredibly stupid thing to do, but in terms of actual artistic quality, it was quite impressive. He has hidden depths of talent, and hidden heights of idiocy.”

“Thank you,” he said, because even a backhanded compliment was, coming from Morgan, high praise.

“I remember that,” Arthur said thoughtfully, “Don’t love that you painted my wife naked but you did a really good job of it.”

Lancelot turned a worrying sort of vermillion, “We don’t- we don’t have to do this in a public forum-”

“As much as I would love to do this in a public forum,” Morgan broke in, visibly amused. “I have a thing later, so let’s wrap this up. Your magic swords are about to get here.”

And not a second later, there came a polite knock on the propped open back door and the Lady of the Lake entered the room. Her only concession to the current millennia was that her long white sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. She had a quiet sort of power very different from Morgan’s, which crackled like electricity in the air- her’s was more like a rolling fog. She gave a polite little wave and stepped into the room.

Lionel followed her carrying a large Tupperware. “Hey, guys, sorry we’re so late.”

“Lionel, I genuinely didn’t realize you weren’t here,” Kay said.

Looking a little hurt, he went to set down the container and noticed the wreck of the table. He shrugged and set it down anyway.

“I come bearing gifts!” The Lady announced, with more pep that any of them were really prepared to handle at the moment.

“Is it food?” Mordred asked.

“Mordred, be polite,” Arthur said. He inclined his head at Vivian, the rare acknowledgement of an equal, “Hello, and thank you for coming. Is is food, my Lady?”

“I made cookies and apple tarts. There were a lot of loose apples in a crate for some reason?”

Briefly, she looked to each of them as if for an answer. Gawain did not meet her eyes.

“If I’m not mistaken those aren’t all you brought,” Morgan drawled, still inclined in a rolling chair with her feet up on the remains of the table. She was wearing combat boots which had tracked in mud.

“Yes, but I thought I’d do snacks first. I’m not a savage,” Vivian said, and true to her word waited for baked goods to be distributed before continuing. She reached into a pocket and pulled out a black cloth bag, opening only about large enough to fit in one’s fist, depending of course on the size of said fist.

“Would one of you lend me a hand and fill this up with water?”

Sensing a fight about to break out over who would get to fetch Vivian water, Arthur selected Percy for the task, because he was the only one absolutely no one, excluding Kay, could possibly be angry with.

He filled the bag up with water from the bathroom sink and returned, finding that the cloth bag retained it without even seeming to become wet. Vivian took it and thanked him.

She handed the bag to Lionel, who was standing nearest to her. “Try and see if you can draw something out, then pass it along,” she suggested, “oh, but the lady Morgan Le Fey should not take it, nor her brother.” She smiled apologetically, “The magic would clash, I’m afraid.”

Morgan shrugged. She could make her own magic sword if she wanted one, which she didn’t, thank you very much.

Lionel looked confused, but he put his hand in the bag as told. He found nothing but water and, disappointed, he passed it along to Hector, who also drew nothing. In fact, it was nearly a dozen unsuccessful and increasingly baffled knights later that it came to Gawain. To everyone’s shock, his most of all, he grasped the hilt of a familiar sword, which came impossibly from the small bag. The sword had been given to him by the Lady of the Lake the first time, too, and it was called Galatine.

His brothers were next and got nothing till it reached Mordred, who drew a blade that had never belonged to him, but had come to him now. The edges were dulled, for it was a ceremonial sword, for knighting ceremonies and not battle, and it was called Clarent. He didn’t look nearly as pleased to see it as Gawain had to see his.

The last person to have success was the very next. The sword Galahad drew from the bag had a red hilt, and written on that hilt were words in a language few there would recognize, though they all knew what they meant. It was the sword Galahad had drawn from a stone in a river, placed there by Merlin decades before, and the words read:

_There shall never man handle this sword but the best knight in the world, and that shall be Sir Lancelot or else Galahad his son, and Lancelot with this sword shall slay the man that in the world he loved best, that shall be Sir Gawain._

The room was dead quiet, which was rare for them. After all, a good number of them had died on that sword. Even Vivian was looking solemn. Then,

“So do you wanna trade, or what?”

Galahad blinked. “Come again?”

A few people snickered but if they were heard they were not acknowledged.

“Yeah, well you’re always going on about how you don’t want t kill anyone and Catholics really get off on symbols, so I thought you might like a symbolic, blunt sword. And I want one you can, you know, hurt people with. Not that I’m going to.”

“Mordred, doesn’t it bother you that it was used to kill all of your brothers?” Arthur asked, concerned. Lancelot was still sitting on the floor and was currently attempting to become invisible. It wasn’t working.

“Nope, doesn’t bug me.”

So they traded, and, desperate to end the meeting on something resembling a high point, Arthur clapped his hands and announced that they would meet again tomorrow at an as-yet-to-be-determined location.

“We should probably try to put the room back together as much as possible before we leave,” he said, looking pointedly at Vivian and then Morgan to see if they would volunteer. Vivian pretended not to notice, and his sister just flipped him off.

Vivian came up to her as the rest of them were clearing out, and offered her a cookie which was turned down. Morgan refused all food from strangers as a rule.

“I don’t understand your magic, Morgan. You can rebuild Camelot, but you can’t do it without a reference?”

“Oh,” she smirked, “I absolutely could. I just think Lancelot needs to develop some non-violence-based skills and hobbies. He also needs extensive therapy but when it comes down to it probably we all do."

“That, I agree with,” the lady said.

They watched the knights try and return the boardroom to a semblance of order. It wasn’t going well; already Agravaine had picked a fight with Lancelot over chair stacking methods. Percy had broken another lamp and wouldn’t stop apologizing to Gawain no matter how much he said it was fine, and smoke was coming from the recycling bin.

“What kind are they?” Morgan asked, very casual.

Vivian exercised great restraint in maintaining her composure, “shortbread dipped in chocolate.”

The papers in the bin caught, and yellow flickers peaked over the edge of the bin.

“Fuck it,” Morgan said, right before the fire alarm went off, “Gimme two.”

* * *

Gawain: what the FUCK is ‘the thing’ morgan has later im so afraid

Owain: I’m gonna introduce her to all my pets! :D

Gawain: ...oh

Gawain: that’s nice actually

Gawain: i forgot that some people don’t have deeply bad relationships w their mothers

Gawain: good for you

Owain: are you like… okay

Gawain: not remotely, have fun w your mom tho!


	7. A Poorly Planned Heist and A Complicated Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> repatriation kind of, entering and then breaking, marriage prospects, and going off the grid

> Agravaine: you know how im your favourite brother
> 
> Gawain: you aren’t but continue
> 
> Agravaine: what the fuck do you mean ‘you arent’
> 
> Agravaine: you know what i dont even need your help
> 
> Agravaine: you are uninvited from the heist of the century, asshole!
> 
> Gawain: okay have fun be safe

> Agravaine: hey so
> 
> Gaheris: fuck off

> Agravaine: are you busy rn
> 
> Mordred: yes, go away

> Agravaine: so
> 
> Agravaine: this is weird but do you want to help me break into the british museum
> 
> Lionel: …
> 
> Lionel: i guess?

* * *

“Okay,” Dinadan began, “let me get this straight. You wanted to rob the British Museum- perhaps the most secure building in England- and the people you decided to bring with you are the guy you bullied in high school and someone whom you murdered in a past life?”

“I don’t have. A lot of friends,” Agravaine admitted with some difficulty, “and my brothers were all busy- Look, you didn’t have to come!”

He grinned. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

“I would,” Lionel said, looking up from his phone and the museum guide app he was struggling to understand.

They were in the Egypt section, maybe, and they had been there for quite some time. Agravaine had elected not to do any prior research, hire professional help, or have a plan in any way. What he did have was a lengthy conversation with his aunt which ended in her giving him several small bags full of various nondescript and therefore extremely threatening coloured powders.

“So, it’s on temporary display with a bunch of other medieval stuff, in room 40, which is- oh. The app’s crashed again. Maybe we should just leave and not steal.”

Agravaine threw up his hands and set off in a random direction hoping to stumble into the right room eventually.

“It’s not stealing, Lionel, it’s repatriation, a very noble pursuit,” Dinadan corrected, “the Brits stole all this shit first so, as we all know, stealing it back makes it legal again.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” Lionel insisted, following Agravaine.

Dinadan kept pace, “Trust me, I’m somewhat of a law expert, I’ve been in small claims court six times.”

“Wait, why?”

They turned another corner. Agravaine was beginning to panic but kept confidently walking forward anyway.

“I get sued for defamation a lot. I have a clause named after me that lawyers have to learn about.”

“I feel like that’s a lie,” Lionel said suspiciously, almost running into a group of American tourists.

“I would never-”

Agravaine stopped abruptly, causing the other two to almost run into him. “I did it. I did it, I’m a genius.”

They were, somehow, in room 40, or at least some room filled with rusted old weapons and armour.

“Okay, here’s the plan. This one,” he held up a bag with blue powder, “will make all the cameras break, so we use that first. Then put this,” he gestured to the red powder bag, “on my stuff so it’ll shrink temporarily, and I put it in my pocket after throwing a rock through the glass case. Then Dinadan will start yelling fire, and we’ll get out with the crowds through the emergency exit and sneak off in the confusion.”

“Two questions,” Lionel said, looking unenthusiastic, “whats does the third bag do, and what’s my job?”

“Your job is to hit anyone that gets in the way, and Morgan wouldn’t tell me what was in the third bag, but it’s probably fine.”

Dinadan considered it. “It’s probably cocaine.”

Lionel still looked nervous, “This is a terrible plan. Dinadan, why you going along with this at all?”

He laughed, “are you kidding? This is nothing compared to what Tristan would drag me into. Great guy but, no shit, I think he might literally be a sociopath.”

“Yeah, I’m not surprised- you can’t trust anyone who plays the harp. Look, this is gonna work,” Agravaine promised, “the plan is perfect, nothing can go wrong.”

* * *

“God, why did we think this was a good idea?” Lionel asked to no one in particular.

Things had gone South pretty much immediately, and they were now hiding in some employee-only archive room underneath the museum. Alarms were blaring.

Dinadan shrugged, “I figured it can’t be that bad of an idea if God doesn’t descend from the heavens to stop you.”

Lionel chuckled in a slightly hysterical way, “I used to think that, then it actually happened to me! God set me on fire and called me a dipshit and I guess I didn’t learn my lesson because I think I may have killed several security guards. What the fuck is wrong with all of us?!”

“Look,” Agravaine said, “we’ve all tried to kill our siblings in a fit of jealous rage, it’s totally normal.”

“It’s really not. It’s really just you two,” Dinadan pointed out unhelpfully.

Then the sprinklers on the ceiling went off.

“Alright, that’s it,” Lionel said, “I’m calling my mom.”

“If she’s Lancelot’s mom and you two are cousins how is she also your mom?” Dinadan asked absently. No one answered, because as soon as Lionel took his phone out Agravaine panicked and punched him in the gut. He used that distraction to take Lionel’s phone away before he could recover.

“Ow, God, shit, What the fuck?” Lionel gasped when he was able to breathe again.

“Vivian will tell my uncle! Or worse, Lancelot.”

“How is that worse?”

“Agravaine, like a reluctant princess, is loath to be rescued,” Dinadan explained sardonically, “Lancelot rescued him from Caradoc and so Agravaine hates him forever. I rescued him from a tower and he murdered me about it, it’s a whole thing with him.”

“No, it isn’t! Look- Look, I’m calling Morgan,” he said in defeat, because it seemed like the alarms had gotten louder all of a sudden and he was out of ideas, “At least she’s not a narc.”

“My mom is not a narc, she’s an angel, fuck you.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t bring up moms either,” Dinadan said, “it’s a sore point.”

“Dinadan I swear-” Agravaine snapped, anxiously waiting for Morgan to pick up.

“What are you gonna do, stab me?”

The phone was answered just in time to prevent a calamity.

“Hi Aunt Morgan, I um- oh,” He covered the speaker with an unidentifiable expression, and passed the phone to Lionel, “It’s your mom.”

Dinadan looked delighted with this development, and even more delighted by Agravaine’s horror.

Lionel took the phone in confusion, “uh, hi, what- no I don’t- everything is fine-” he looked to the other two in a panic.

“Just tell her,” Agravaine muttered. He had his head in his hands.

“Right. So I’m at the British Museum and- oh. Oh, you know. You’re on your way. That’s not- Please don’t tell-” He stopped. “She hung up.”

* * *

“I have an eighty-four step plan that ends with the Windsors gone and you on your throne,” Morgan explained, snapping her fingers to conjure a whiteboard, “‘step twenty-seven, a good king needs a queen.”

“That’s rather heteronormative, Auntie,” Gawain pointed out from the couch. He hadn’t been invited to the meeting, but it was taking place in his kitchen so he couldn’t exactly avoid it. He was currently trying to teach Vivian how to use a phone.

“The queen doesn’t have to be a woman,” she allowed.

“Noted,” Arthur said, “Why exactly do I need a queen?”

Morgan gestured to the whiteboard wildly, “We’ve been over this. For steps 37, 8 and 63-70, and besides, it’s good PR. Trust me, I spend two decades making plans to overthrow someone and claim their throne.”

“But you never actually succeeded,” Her brother pointed out, to her irritation.

She crossed her arms, “Look, do you not want my help? Because I can fuck off back to Avalon right now-”

“No, no,” he said quickly, “I do need your help. I’m sorry. Is there someone you have in mind for queen?”

Morgan brightened, “Yes, actually. She has a lot of experience at it already, skilled at strategy and statecraft as well as courtly manners and dress, and your knights already know her.”

“Wait, you’re not talking about, about Guinevere? How-”

A very loud and familiar song suddenly blasted at max volume from the living room, and Vivian almost dropped the phone, with a small cry of surprise.

“Lady Morgan your phone is singing! It says-”

“It’s Agravaine, yeah,” she said dismissively, “he’s calling to beg for help because his heist went to shit. Go ahead and answer it for me.”

Arthur sputtered, “I’m sorry, his WHAT?”

“You press the green button,” Gawain said helpfully, and with some trepidation, she did so.

“I’m sorry, but this isn’t the Lady Morgan. Could you- oh, Lionel! Hello, Dear, that is it?”

“Lionel?!” Arthur demanded, “Why is Lionel on the phone?”

Morgan actually looked surprised, “That one’s unexpected, in all honesty.”

“Yes, yes, I heard you’re having some trouble in the museum and need some help, yes, Morgan was all ready, we’ll be right there,” Vivian said sympathetically as if this wasn’t a situation Lionel had knowingly gotten himself into. She hung up, pressing the button like a typewriter key.

“Auntie, why is your ringtone Space Jam?” Gawain asked politely.

“Because I’m cooler than all of you,” she answered, walking to the door and grabbing her coat, “You coming, Viv?”

“Is anyone going to explain what’s happening?” Arthur said plaintively as Vivian, too, rose to leave.

“Agravaine broke into the British Museum and fucked it up, Uncle,” Gawain explained, a little dismissively, “and if my brothers in trouble I’m coming too, even if it his fault.”

Morgan huffed, “Fine, fine. I don’t know what we’ll need an unarmed knight for.”

“I’m not just a knight! I’m a trained diplomat! The poets called me golden-tongued,” Gawain argued, rushing to the door after them.

“Right, I’m sure that's where the nickname came from.”

“Auntie, that’s filthy,” Gawain said, not sounding particularly offended. The door slammed shut and Arthur did not hear her response. The sounds of their conversation faded down the hallway and into nothing, and the king was left alone in his nephew's kitchen, still not confident he knew what was going on.

“Huh.”

* * *

> Lancelot: god i miss medieval times
> 
> Tristan: bro medieval times sucked
> 
> Lancelot: sure we didnt have like, real medicine i guess
> 
> Dinadan: or decent food, or drainage systems, or comfortable beds without bugs, or overnight delivery, or clean water or electricity
> 
> Lancelot: yeah but i was thriving! I was the best knight in the world!
> 
> Lancelot: now i have to make a single phone call and i have a panic attack and sleep for 16 hours straight
> 
> Tristan: tbh thats a you problem bud
> 
> Dinadan: destroy your phone, go off the grid!
> 
> [Timestamp eight hours later]
> 
> Tristan: wait did he actually do it
> 
> Tristan: @lancelot wtf
> 
> Dinadan: damn. Yeah call went straight to voicemail. Bye forever i guess.
> 
> Gareth: NOOOOOOOOOOOO!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i finally figured out how to get guinevere up in here the hype is real. probably next chapter will be either her or mabon or both depending on how things work best :)
> 
> also  
> other songs i considered making morgans ringtone:  
> hot girl problems  
> two trucks  
> rasputin  
> the hex girls song from scooby doo


	8. Various Stolen Things and the Return of Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a museum rescue, mcdonalds, skittles, Beth, a lecture hall and a portentous arrival

> Gawain: alright, this can be a learning opportunity. Lets start with some helpful critique
> 
> Agravaine: now is not the time!
> 
> Agravaine: holy shit how far away are you guys!?
> 
> Gawain: I’ll start. Instead of coming up with a plan u relied on magic to help you
> 
> Gaheris: ooh me next! You should have gone on a weekend when it would be busier and easier to slip out with a crowd
> 
> Mordred: ur accomplices sucked get better accomplices
> 
> Agravaine: i hope i get caught and go to fucking prison so I dont have to deal you guys anymore, not joking
> 
> Gawain: okay ill tell morgan u changed your mind :3
> 
> Agravaine: NO WAiT DoNT
> 
> Agravaine: FUJK
> 
> Gaheris: *FUCK

It was comically easy. Magically disguised as some sort of emergency official, Gawain talked their way in, which he was remarkably smug about.

“I told you I’d be useful!”

“Uh-huh, great job kid,” Morgan said condescendingly, “now watch this,” and she began to shape a spell.

Her and Vivian worked the magic in tandem to freeze everyone in the North wing in place, living but still and unseeing as stone.

“You don’t have to try and impress me, Aunt Morgan,” Gawain said as they began to trace the rather serpentine path Agravaine and company had taken to the archive rooms.

“As if I care about your opinion!” she sputtered, offended.

Vivian laughed, “You two have different skill sets, it’s pointless to compete. I think you both did very well!”

“Can you please adopt me?” Gawain asked sincerely, carefully stepping around a frozen family, fear and confusion on their still faces.

“Excuse me?”

“Ignore him,” Morgan said, brusque as ever, and pointed to a locked ‘employees only door’, “Kick it down.”

He did so, descending the staircase behind the now destroyed door. Morgan turned and, in a stage whisper he could certainly hear, said, “Mommy issues.”

Shouting erupted from below, and the two women could only assume this meant Gawain had found his brother. They followed him down, Vivian taking the lead. The two brothers were arguing in something like Scots Gaelic, and though they didn’t understand the words, it was evident to all there that Agravaine was losing rather badly.

“Mom!” Lionel said when she appeared about the corner, exclaiming with the exact tone of voice a high schooler would when asking their mother to pick them up from a party because the other kids were drinking alcohol. Dinadan, leaning casually against a wet bookshelf, was the only one of the three looking both emotional collected and without any regret.

“You got here fast, Lady Morgan.”

“Well,” she noted proudly, “I had a contingency for when you all realized you fucked up. I put a tracking spell on Agravaine.”

“Wait, what?” Interrupted the man in question, who had admitted surrender to his brother and was now looking sheepish and haggard.

“That’s what was in the third bag, spellwork so I could keep track of you,” She explained.

“We thought it was cocaine maybe.”

“Agravaine, why would I give you free coke? You’re not even my favourite nephew.”

“So you would give some to Mordred?”

“We should really leave,” Vivian broke in, “I don’t know if I can keep up my end of the freezing spell much longer.”

Lionel nodded enthusiastically, “can we please just go?” “Can we please get Mcdonalds on the way?” Dinadan asked, mimicking Lionel’s inflection and accent to a T.

“Yes,” Said Gawain and Vivian at the same time Morgan said “No.”

“It seems you’ve been outvoted, my lady!” Vivian said cheerily as the little party began to make their way up the stairs.

“This isn’t a democracy, it’s a monarchy.”

“You’re right of course Auntie,” Gawain said smoothly, kicking the broken door bits out of the way, “And, as the crown prince and heir to that monarchy, who given that my uncle is not present, would be the highest-ranking one here, I declare that we should stop for a snack.”

“Then as crown prince and heir, you will pay for it,” Morgan said, ceding the field, because in all honesty, she could go for an ice tea.

“Fuck yeah,” Dinadan said and high fived Gawain.

The other two knights were too wrapped up in regret to note this victory. The ragtag band made their way out of the museum, Gawain surreptitiously stealing things when he thought Morgan wasn’t looking, and finally stumbled out into the ruckus and panic outside ready to face Arthur’s wrath, at least they would be ready once they’d had a snack.

* * *

> Agravaine: so now i just have a bunch of stolen antiques in my flat like a freak
> 
> Gawain: that’s not that weird, this one girl i knew had a fully stocked vending machine in her den
> 
> Agravaine: wait really
> 
> Gawain: yeah i though it was odd too, but i left her house 53 pounds poorer so maybe i was the idiot
> 
> Agravaine: 53? How expensive was it??
> 
> Gawain: ...everything was a pound
> 
> Agravaine: as much as i would love to hear this whole story, preferably in exhaustive novel-length form, i really need ur help with all these fucking evidence swords
> 
> Gawain: sorry :3 got one already :3
> 
> Agravaine: i fucking hate you so much

* * *

Arthur had his head in his hands.

They were meeting in a lecture hall at the university because Gawain said that the class only met once a week, and “we can totally use the space, I blew the TA at a party so he owes me,” and they hadn’t asked further questions.

The King stood at the lectern looking at his nephew with consternation. “I cannot believe you. You broke into the British Museum after I explicitly told you not to-”

“Technically,” Agravain corrected, “you only told Lancelot not to, you didn’t say anything about me.”

“Kid has a point,” Morgan said from the sidelines, looking amused by the whole thing.

Agravaine grinned. He didn't even care that he was in trouble, he was just glad to get any attention for once.

Arthur sighed. He couldn’t punish Agravaine very strictly without pissing off the Orkneys, and he couldn’t punish Dinadan or Lionel because then he’d be giving the accomplices a harsher sentence than the true guilty party.

“Since I technically didn’t tell you not to, the only crime you committed was being an idiot. You are your accomplices will stay after the meetings to clean up from now on.”

Gaheris was horrified, “You can’t let him off that easily! People could have died! He should at least have to -OW!”

He turned to his older brother looking betrayed, “You kicked me!”

“I’d do it again,” Gawain said calmly, “don’t be a grass.”

“Settle down,” Said Arthur without much real hope for them doing so.

“Yeah guys, God.”

Everyone turned to glare at Mordred. He had a large clay amphora on his desk with black painted figures on it. It was filled with small brightly coloured objects.

“Mordred,” Arthur said slowly, “Why do you have that?”

“My favourite brother got it for me. It’s got Achilles and Ajax on it, it’s from Archaic Greece.”

Gawain was too pleased at being called his favourite brother to enact any sort of discipline, which was probably the intention of the statement, leaving it up to Arthur.

“Where did you even get that many skittles,” Percy asked, peering over from the row above.

“Won ‘em in a contest,” Mordred said, leaning back in his chair.

“What contest?” His father asked against his better judgement.

“It was a contest to see who could steal the most skittles from the convenience store. Which I won,” he smiled like a cat and looked sideways at Galahad, “my opponent didn’t have his head in the game.”

The grail knight sunk deep into his seat at the sudden attention from the room, and the unspoken questions.

“I- er. Bad,” was all he could manage to say.

“Galahad, stop letting Mordred be a bad influence on you. Mordred-” He sighed, “I guess try not to break that, it’s probably of massive cultural value.”

Arthur glanced nervously at the door and then turned back to his knights. “You know what, no, this can be a learning experience. You have to share with everyone. Pass your goddamn ancient amorpha filled with fucking stolen gas station skittles around, everyone take some, I don’t care if you want any, this is about making a point!”

"What?" Mordred exclaimed, "I'm not-"

Arthur took out the clicker and pressed the button several times. Looking confused, Mordred handed the ceramic artefact to Gareth next to him. They all took skittles in silence. Arthur kept glancing at the door. Morgan kept not looking at the door.

Galahad poked miserably at the pile of candies with a pencil, “this is why my therapist says not to talk to you anymore.”

“Beth’s full of shit, don’t listen to her.”

The gathered attendants sat in uncomfortable silence for several long moments, pretending not to notice Arthur pretending not to look at the door.

> Lancelot: I can’t take this why are we looking at the door
> 
> Gawain: you’re sitting right next to me why are we texting
> 
> Lancelot: …
> 
> Gawain: okay fine, but don’t freak out and run into the woods or anything
> 
> Lancelot: I cannot promise that
> 
> Gawain: ok well
> 
> Gawain: so
> 
> Lancelot: juts xrip it off just rip of the bandais i cant take this
> 
> Gawain: Guinevere’s back!

Before he could respond, if he was even capable of doing so, there came a knock on the door, which then gently opened without waiting for an answer. Birdsong filled the room and the air grew warm. A half-dead potted plant by the window came alive and bloomed with huge, fragrant red and pink blossoms to announce that the Queen of Spring had arrived.

* * *

> Mordred: Gaheris is getting awfully sanctimonious for someone who killed our mother in a fit of psycho-sexual jealous rage
> 
> Lancelot: wait psycho-sexual
> 
> Gareth: i mean he had a point
> 
> Agravaine: hes being a fucking narc!
> 
> Lancelot: psycho-sexual?!
> 
> Gawain: yeah, alright i’ll talk to him
> 
> Lancelot: PSYCHO-SEXUAL???!!!
> 
> Lancelot: HELLO???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god its been a hot minute since i updated this but. arthuriana discord made a band au and now im having a hard time caring about a reincarnation au where they ARENT in a band tbh  
> but yeah, beth real, guinevere next chapter, yeehaw  
> also i keep forgetting this is set in britain and i have to use british words which pains me so much. why cant they use real words for things


	9. Regrets and Yet More of The Same Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magical subcontractors, the paternoster, threats and promises, a magnum opus and Guinevere’s return

> Lancelot: hey guys. My mom found my phone because i threw it in a lake and she fixed it and made me take it back
> 
> Dinadan: seems like poor planning on your part
> 
> Lancelot: my whole life is poor planning on my part
> 
> Tristan: dude dont be a fucking downer

* * *

Arthur and Guinevere had spoken before the reveal, of course; Morgan loved the drama of it all but even she wasn’t that cruel. Among the knights, however, Gawain, Kay and Bedivere were the only ones with foreknowledge.

It had gone poorly, to put things in the simplest terms. Arthur had taken ten full minutes to regain control of the room, and The Queen hadn’t been nearly as helpful as she could have been, answering jeers accordingly and rewarding cheers with thrown flowers that she seemed to pull from the air. Morgan was revelling in the chaos and Vivian was too concerned by the fact that her son seemed to have gone catatonic to help restore order.

Finally, they were mostly quiet, the room still filled with anxious rustling and whispers, all eyes on Guinevere, beaming in front of the lectern where her new old husband stood. All except Lancelot, who was staring at the ceiling. He was attempting to recite the paternoster to himself but kept forgetting it midway through and starting over, words blurring together.

“Why is she summoning flowers? She couldn’t do that before. Mordred, she couldn’t do that before could she?” Galahad whispered, horrified.

“I think she’s become some sort of spring goddess,” Mordred mused academically as if it were no matter of great wonder or importance.

Arthur spread his hands in a bid for their attention, but all eyes remained on Guinevere.

“Everyone, I think you already know my Queen. I understand that this was a contentious choice-”

Agravaine stood, looking somewhere between horrified and enraged, “She fucked Lancelot and you’re letting her be Queen again? What the hell-”

Without sparing a sideways glance, Gawain punched his brother in the stomach at full force and he crumpled.

“Apologize.”

Agravaine was lying on the floor trying not to throw up, and as such did not answer.

“Um. It’s nearly noon,” Gareth pointed out, looking at Agravaine nervously.

“Oh,” Gawain flushed, and nudged his brother on the floor, “Sorry, I forgot.”

Pretending to ignore this, Arthur plunged on, “But I think her experience and skill will far outweigh the… baggage… from last go around.”

Guinevere nodded, smiling serenely, “I think all of us did things we regret, like Lancelot.”

“He would certainly have a lot of regrets,” her husband granted, not sure where she was going with this.

“Oh, no, I mean I regret doing Lancelot.”

“Ah,” Arthur responded, strained.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the chamber, except from Morgan who was laughing hysterically, and Lancelot, who was still trying to make up for two decades of atheism.

“ _pater noster, qui es in cœlis; sanctificetur- er- pater noster qui- nomen tuum: Adveniat regnum tuum; fiat voluntas- oh god- pater noster_ -”

> Agravaine: you didn't tell me you had your sun powers back asshole. When the fuck did that happen??
> 
> Gawain: when i got galatine. Are you really gonna stay on the floor?
> 
> Agravaine: if i get up are you gonna punch me again??
> 
> Gawain: only if ur a dick
> 
> Agravaine: yeah im staying down here

“As you can see, I am not longer a mortal woman. I’m on some new shit,” Guinevere announced, to scattered cheers and applause from her supporters.

“ _tua, sicut in cœlo, et in terra. Panem nostrum- ah, pater noster- co- otidia- what's the word, co- er- pater noster-_ ”

“But in addition to my duties as a pagan spring deity, I am once again taking up the mantle of queen, and I expect the support of all of you. Some of you, who are not as willing to forgive and forget, should remember that you are yourselves made safe by that policy,” she said, still smiling but now stern.

“ _Cotidi- pater noster qui es in caelis- coti- coti-_ ”

“Cotidianum!” Galahad burst out, unable to contain his impatience with his father's struggle, given the crisis of faith he himself was currently going through regarding the pagan deity in the room. Lancelot did not look at him, continuing to mutter but at a lower volume.

“Thank you Galahad, you may sit,” she said, and he did so, embarrassed.

A rose grew out of the cracks in the wooden floor, perfectly and impossibly straight with the bloom coming out like a microphone. She unhooked it, a vine trailing off like a cord.

“Now, my first act of Queen is to formally pardon all those who moved against me in a previous life. All is forgiven, and it is my hope that we can be friends. Secondly, I would like to address my dear sister in law specifically,” She said turning to Morgan, who was slouched in her chair by the door, unimpressed.

“Oh, no,” breathed Arthur. There was no way this would go well. If they fought it was a disaster- he´d had a decade of their feud and it had almost torn the kingdom apart countless times. But if they got along- if they teamed up- it was too frightening a prospect to even consider.

“I noticed that you're making renovations to my castle, which as Queen falls within my jurisdiction. You subcontracted the work out to the Coblynau which is creating political complications for me, and I'm not the only one who has noticed, it's been all over the news. What is your plan in terms of PR?”

“It's been what?” Arthur said alarmed before his sister could answer, to her private relief.

“Did you seriously not know?”

“Good Queen, perhaps if you allowed Lady Morgan to explain,” Vivian said, harsher than they thought possible for her. She disliked Guinevere for her sons sake, not unreasonably.

“I have a plan, which you wouldn't be privy to, and if my dear sister had considered-”

“Alright”, Arthur broke in, “we need to discuss this privately- various magical women, Kay, Bedivere, into the office. Gawain, stay here and try to keep the casualties to a minimum.”

Those selected followed him into the small attached office room behind the lecture hall and shut the door behind them.

Gawain rose, “If any of you kills someone I’ll kill you back.”

They all nodded their assent.

“Great.”

He vaulted over the desk and into the lower row where Lancelot and his cousins were sitting.

“Real quick, let’s talk,” Gawain said, dropping down onto the desk next to him.

Lancelot sat up, “Okay?”

“I have always said that threats are indecent between friends, so I want you to know that what I am about to say is not in any way a threat, but a solemn promise,” he swore, looking deceptively casual.

“Oh, God,” Lancelot muttered, with no idea where this was going but knowing he wouldn’t enjoy it.

“So the Queen has returned, and we’re all very pleased to see her, of course, but if you so much as look in her direction,” he started, growing no more serious or intense in expression or pose but in some indelible sense of very real intention, “I will cut off your dick.”

“Um, what?” Lancelot managed after a long pause.

“I mean it. I’ll just cut off and feed it to the dogs, that’s a promise.”

“...huh,” said Lancelot, who wasn’t in the right frame of mind for multiple syllables at the moment.

Apparently satisfied, Gawain sat back and pulled out his phone.

After a while, Lionel coughed awkwardly, “So, what. What are you guys doing this weekend?”

“I need to beat Lancelot in a fight and reclaim my title as best knight in the world,” Gawain announced, apropos of nothing, not looking up.

Lancelot either did not absorb the meaning of this declaration or had nothing to say about it, because he didn’t react.

“Uh- cool- I was wondering-”

“You’d need to beat Galahad too,” Percival pointed out, “seeing as he’s better than his father. Uh, no offence meant Sir.”

Lancelot shrugged. It was true. It also haunted him in moments of doubt, but God what didn’t. He was still in a stage of semi-consciousness but was at least no longer chanting in Latin.

“If Galahad decides I need to die that’s on me, that’s fine, I trust his judgement. He’s outside the ranking,” Gawain explained, with more smooth confidence than such a statement warranted.

“I’d really rather not kill anyone,” Galahad said quietly. No one heard him but Mordred.

“What about Lamorak and Tristan?” Dinadan asked, invested now.

“Lamorak fucked off to wherever and he sucks, and Tristan,” Gawain put down his phone and looked around, “what is Tristan up to?”

“I’ve been here this whole time,” Tristan said from the back, removing one earbud.

Dinadan looked thoughtful, “I feel like you never say anything.”

Tristan turned his phone around to show them a piano app open, “I’m working on my magnus opium, it's called ‘Isolde Send Feet Pics’ and-”

The door opened before anyone could correct his Latin, and they were spared from hearing any more about any of the horrible things Tristan was doing.

Bedivere looked in, but did not enter the room, “Yeah, It's gonna be a while, you guys can just go.”

He watched them file out with something resembling jealousy before retreating into the office and closing the door behind him. Brights and colourful lights flashed behind the door and as they left, the knights heard loud arguing, something that sounded like the cries of a hundred or so crows, then more arguing.

* * *

> Percival: hey everyone! I was supposed to say this during the meeting but a lot of stuff happened and people started arguing （。-＿-。）
> 
> Gawain: its okay you can tell us now!
> 
> Agravaine: stop doing those little faces
> 
> Percival: (っ◞‸◟c)
> 
> Gawain: you had something to tell us Percy?
> 
> Percival: well i was telling my brother everything that was going on and he said he was going to come see for himself. Hes says hes going to come present himself to the King tomorrow afternoon
> 
> Gawain: … which brother
> 
> Percival: ( ⚆ _ ⚆ )
> 
> Dinadan: oh fuck
> 
> Agravaine: ill fucking kill him again that fucking bastard!!!
> 
> Gaheris: seconded
> 
> Mordred: third!
> 
> Gareth: GAWAIN STOP THEm
> 
> Gawain: no im with them on this one. i cant promise no murder but ill try to be out of town. Someone find something to occupy the other three tomorrow
> 
> Lionel: I actually did have something for them to do
> 
> Agravaine: ah shit.
> 
> Lionel: :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're wondering whether i plan to introduce a new character in 2 of every three chapters the answer is. look. there are a lot of characters. milf lover next chapter, then a break then mabon probably, unless i decide gawain deserves to have his magic pagan boyfriend back in which case bertilak. or maybe ragnelle or maybe nimue or blanchefleur- *a sniper takes me out before i can keep listing characters*
> 
> but it will be a few chapters till i do another long meeting bc meetings are boring


	10. Trying Not To Kill Lamorak: Three Scenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a challenge is issued, dice, rp, bullying all du locs, dennys and mordred does some usurpation

> Lancelot: so i guess we’re fighting to see who's the best knight in the world
> 
> Bedivere: oh god not that debate again
> 
> Gawain: wait what debate
> 
> Bedivere: there was a huge ongoing argument about which of you was better
> 
> Gareth: its weird that you guys never noticed
> 
> Gawain: who won?
> 
> Lionel: lancelot did
> 
> Agravaine: you did
> 
> Bedivere: nobody won. A bunch of furniture got broken and the king banned them from talking about it.
> 
> Gaheris: dont worry u won in spirit bro. lionels just pissy bc owain broke his arm during the fight
> 
> Owain: and i would do it again @lionel watch ur back
> 
> Kay: one more word and i tell arthur.

Lionel set Owain’s nickname to Bitch Boy

> Lionel: technically an action, not a word

* * *

Lancelot had woken up to a glove hitting his face.

“Gawain?” he blinked, “What are you? What are you doing?”

“Challenging you to a fight, of course.”

He sat up, now fully awake. Gawain was perched on the arm of the couch, wearing one glove, looking smug.

“You hit me. With a glove.”

“Yes, that’s generally how a challenge goes unless you’ve forgotten. Now, do you want to fight me, yes or no? Remember, if you say no you lose automatically.”

“Why...?”

Gawain rose, looking as self-satisfied as if he’d already won.

“I’ve got my magic strength and sword back, and you’re out of practice. I’m not.”

Lancelot frowned, “You don’t know I’m out of practice.”

“I saw the ren fair carnage. No one even died- clearly you’re not on your best game.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill anyone,” he protested.

“Aw, Lance, you never were,” Gawain said, and then, realizing this may have been a bit harsh, continued, “I just thought I’d be good practice, get you out of the house. It’ll be fun, we’ll get lunch after, loser pays.”

Lancelot was fighting a losing battle against what little good sense he had.

“I don’t have any money.”

“Winner pays,” Gawain offered.

“Seems like you're kind of introducing a conflict of interest,” He pointed out, but he was already getting up to go.

He supposed that made him predictable but if he was being honest, part of him was glad for an opportunity to actually fight a skilled opponent. It might even be fun, if he only avoided thinking about the last time they had fought.

* * *

“Okay,” Lionel said, tapping a stack of loose papers against the table to straighten it out, “you all read the basic rules I emailed you right?”

“Yes, of course,” Galahad said, at the same time Agravaine scoffed.

“Fuck no, there was like sixteen pages, I'm not reading that.”

“Agravaine is illiterate,” Gaheris claimed, smirking at his brother.

He turned red with rage or embarrassment or both, “No, I am not! Shut up!”

“Im sure what Gaheris meant was that you were very busy and did not have time to read it,” Vivian asserted, setting down a plate of cookies and little cracker sandwiches, and knowing damn well that wasn’t what he meant. They were at Gawain’s apartment, which was practically a public space at this point, gathered around a dining room table covered in papers, books, snacks and dice. The Orkneys, minus their leader, were there to prevent Lamorak's murder. Galahad and Vivian were there to prevent Lionel's murder.

“Uh... alright, I guess I'll explain the rules as we go then,” Lionel said, trying not to be discouraged, “Ill just start.”

He cleared his throat and began to read from his paper, “High noon, the fluorescent sun beat down over the rusted metal wasteland as-”

“Bored.”

Lionel stopped, “What?”

“I said I'm bored,” Mordred repeated, “This sucks so far, I could do better.”

He looked suddenly thoughtful, and before the surprised Lionel could say anything, Mordred stood, “In fact, I think I will. Here's my character sheet, get up we're switching.”

“Mordred,” Galahad started, but was waved off by Lionel.

“Let him try if he thinks it’s so easy.”

“I will, thank you!” He smirked, “ roll initiative.”

“What?” Lionel exclaimed. +

“ _Which one is initiative?_ ” Gaheris whispered.

“ _Its the d20 dumbass_ ,” His brother hissed back.

Vivian clapped and rolled her dice, “this is so exciting!”

Lionel wasn’t nearly as thrilled, “You haven’t even set the scene! We don’t even know what we’re fighting!”

“ _Well I know its the d20 but which one is that?”_

“A bunch of giant snakes, you’re on a hill or something. Roll the dice, French boy.”

_“THE D20 IS THE ONE WITH TWENTY SIDES YOU FUCKING ACCIDENT!”_

“What did you get, Gaheris?” Mordred asked him, pen poised over the paper, pretending not to notice the heated debate his older brothers were engaged in.

“Give me a second!” Gaheris squeaked, frantically counting the sides of the d12, falling short and throwing it blindly behind him before picking up the d10.

“For fucks sake-” Agravine rolled his d20 twice, “I got a 13 and he got an 8.”

Mordred wrote the numbers down.

“Huh!” Galahad said, speaking up for the first time in a bit, “I got a 20.”

It was the first of five successive natural twenties that he rolled.

* * *

“What is this, a job interview? Did everyone have to do this little meeting?” Lamorak demanded, scowling.

“No, it isn’t an interview and no, not everyone had to do this,” Arthur said, looking halfway between tired and embarrassed.

They had finally worked out whatever magical political conflict Guinevere and Morgan had, and he had accepted that some mysteries in the news related to him before he rose would be good PR, and the instant they agreed upon it, the news of Lamorak’s return arrived.

“But seeing as you are engaged in a messy blood feud with the Orkneys I thought we should have a talk about safety precautions.”

Lamorak had also been engaged in a messy affair with the Orkneys mother Morgause, who was also Mordred’s mother, and, in what had been a very gross surprise for him, Arthurs half-sister. But he saw fit not to bring that up.

“But-”

“Are you ready to order?” A waitress asked in feigned chipperness.

“Don’t fucking rush me, Susan!” Lamorak burst out, as Susan sighed and left the table for the third time.

“Practically speaking,” Guinevere said before Lamorak could regather the momentum Susan stole, “the Orkneys are dear sweet boys, but they are also objectively insane and must be kept on a tight leash, and should we loose them a number of people yourself included would find yourselves dead. Gawain will restrain his brothers if you watch yourself but I cannot guarantee his self-control if you step out of line. Consider this a warning.”

The seriousness of her words was not lost on her audience but was undercut by the atmosphere of the Dennys they were sitting in, because the usual meeting place was, for obvious reasons, not ideal.

“This is bullshit, I didn’t do anything! They killed me in cold blood, they killed their own mother, and I'm the one punished for it? Do the rules not apply to them?”

“No, they don’t,” Guinevere said frankly, “The Orkneys got away with killing you and they would get away with it again, and if that is untenable to you, returning to self-imposed exile is always an option. But, with Lancelot back Gawain will behave himself, so as long as you avoid provoking them all will be well.”

He frowned, “Fine, Ill mind your manners for you pet psychopaths. Best behaviour.”

“Good,” Arthur said, relieved that his wife had explained the situation with an honestly he couldn’t bring himself to, “I’ll have Bedivere add you to to the uh- the missive system-”

“Group chat.”

“Right, yes. I knew that.”

“Are you ready to-”

“FUCK OFF SUSAN I'M STILL THINKING ABOUT IT!”

* * *

Bedivere added (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Round Table 2 the Sequel

Bedivere set the nickname for (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Lamorak

> Bedivere: i'm not asking for civility all im asking for is no open threats of violence
> 
> Lamorak: Hello, all
> 
> Agravaine: im going to kill you in your sleep
> 
> Lamorak: oh? … ;)
> 
> Bedivere: what did i JUST say agravaine??
> 
> Gaheris: not loving the implications of the winky face aggs
> 
> Agravaine: i mean it im really gonna kill him im gonna do it
> 
> Lamorak: Are you? All on your own without your big brother's help?
> 
> Gawain: okay this is deliberate provocation

Lamorak has been muted

> Agravaine: take that you dumb cunt!

Agravaine has been muted

> Bedivere: consider yourselves in time out.

Dinadan has been muted

> Gawain: taking preemptive action i see.
> 
> Bedivere: its for his own safety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hewwo im splitting it into three thats right im avante garde now  
> no one new next chapter then probably mabon or grail gang but probably mabon bc ive been saying i was gonna bring him back for like 6 chapters and i miss owain


	11. A Reverse Userpation and a Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a rematch, cookies, a cat that doesnt exist, and more self indulgent d and d

> Galahad: so hows your brother
> 
> Percival: loud. How are the orkneys?
> 
> Galahad: loud.
> 
> Galahad: i know killing people in real life is a sin
> 
> Percival: pretty big one (ﾟｰﾟ;)
> 
> Galahad: but how about in a game is that okay, like if i killed gaheris and agravaine in a game. Thats probably fine right?
> 
> Percival: (◕⌓◕;) 
> 
> * * *

Galahad stared at the number on the dice in shock. Mordred laughed in a not particularly nice way, and reached across the table to take his sheet. Without looking up from the offending die, Galahad grabbed his wrist to stop him. 

“Your luck ran out. Guess God doesn’t like you anymore,” Mordred said, making no attempt to break free from the iron grip that, given his angelic pre-raphaelite exterior, was fairly impressive.

“You were targeting me on purpose- You- you attacked me twice as often as Agravaine or Gaheris!” He protested finally. Mordred stuck his tongue out.

“Let him try again,” Vivian urged, and, at her bidding, Mordred nodded. Galahad rerolled his third death save for a natural one, and after staring at this for an even greater time, released Mordred.

“Sorry, you’re dead. Make a new character.”

“Try making one that doesn’t suck so much,” Agravaine suggested, as Lionel passed the now deceased Galahad a blank sheet.

“You know what?” He said thoughtfully, “Yeah, I already know what I'm doing. My new character is named Mordred and he’s the worst.”

“Hey! You can't-”

Galahad ignored him, “He’s part boy part rat and he lives in the sewer-”

“Lionel, he’s not allowed to do that- that’s against the rules,” Mordred asserted, looking frantically at Lionel for backup. But, still bitter about the usurpation, he shook his head, “he can name his character whatever he wants.”

“I roll to make Mordred the Rat Boy pee his pants,” Galahad said, making direct eye contact.

“Vivian!”

“That’s a constitution roll,” Lionel added helpfully.

“Might be performance,” Agravaine countered, smirking. Gaheris was laughing too hard to speak.

Vivian shrugged in apology, smiling.

“I got an eighteen plus three nature, twenty-one.”

“Fine! Fine!” Mordred sat back and threw up his hands, “you do that.”

“Say it.”

“I'm not saying it.”

“Say it!” Agravaine yelled, backing up Galahad.

“Yeah, say- say it- say you-” Gaheris struggled to add through peals of laughter.

“Say it! Say it!” they all, even Vivian, began to chant.

“Mordred-” Mordred grimaced, “he successfully- he- he pe- No! I won’t say it! Your stupid cleric is miraculously healed! You’re alive again!”

Galahad was unmoved.

“Maybe I like my new character.”

“Please?” Mordred pleaded. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say that word before,” Agravaine noted, sending Gaheris back into hysterics.

“That was a big step for you, saying please like that,” Vivian noted and looked at Galahad meaningfully.

He deliberated for a moment before nodding, “fine. At full hit points.”

The assembled table cheered as Mordred slumped back into his chair.

“If Lynette were here she would have backed me up.”

“Lynette? Are we talking about Lynette?” Gareth asked from the couch, putting down his DS.

“Has he been here this whole time?” Lionel asked, to no answer. Gareth vaulted over the couch and walked over the table to grab a cookie.

“Seriously is Lynette here?”

“No, your wife is not here, she's been dead for fifteen hundred years. Go back to playing pokemon or whatever,” Agravaine dismissed him with a wave of the hand which he summarily ignored in favour of a second cookie and inquiring glances at the assembly.

“Stop it with the puppy dog eyes! Seriously, what do you want me to do?” His oldest brother exclaimed, caving.

“Please?”

“Please what? I can't do necromancy Gareth!”

Vivian coughed gently to draw their attention, and they all turned to her,

“Could you describe this Lynette?”

“Perfect.” 

Agravaine rolled his eyes, “she was a ginger, yea high, freckles, sort of squinty.”

“She was really mean,” Gaheris added, and Gareth nodded enthusiastically.

Vivian thought a moment, then clapped her hands together, “Yes! I'll be right back, I have to check something. No fighting!”

Then she exploded into mist which melted into the floorboards within seconds. They all stared at the spot where she'd been a little surprised. Gareth took a third cookie.

* * *

They were back on Badon hill, which was still private property, but now that he had a sword Gawain was cockier and more willing to break laws, which he was already pretty willing to do before. And what shaky moral code or sense of legality Lancelot had was and always had been immediately superseded by any amount of peer pressure. 

It was about ten o'clock when they started, first tentatively, attacks stiff and slow from disuse of the skills and the muscles behind them, though it was clear Gawain had tried to keep in practice. But after a half-hour, motor memory started to kick in, and they were fighting for real. Morgan was “still working on” actual armour, but had managed to get them chain and tabards and shields, after Bedivere insisted on at least some half-hearted attempt at safety. The suggestion not to use open blades was, of course, rejected outright by the both of them.

They were close to evenly matched- Gawain had more skill and practice, but Lancelot was faster, taller and, without the suns help, stronger. It would have been difficult for any onlooker to guess the direction of the fight, but the only audience they had were bored sheep and a few sleeping cows. Finally, though, by late afternoon, Lancelot lay defeated in the bloody grass.

“Fuck yeah! I'm the sexiest man alive and I'll never die, my wife is the sun and my husband is the earth! I'm invincible!” Gawain yelled, victorious, then threw Galatine off into the weeds somewhere and collapsed in the torn-up grass next to Lancelot.

“Technically,” Lancelot said through ragged breaths, “I won the last two.”

“Fuck.”

The first fight had lasted about five hours, but with timing in his favour, Gawain had been victorious. Lancelot called for best two out of three and won the next two which lasted about twenty minutes each, Gawain called for all or nothing and won the last fight in five minutes. 

“I said all or nothing, that means I won.”

“Best three out of five?” Lancelot suggested.

“...let's call it a tie.”

They lay there in companionable silence for a while, watching the sun sink lower in the sky as the fields turned a soft orange, then dusky purple. For a few minutes at a time, they would almost think they were back in the first go-round, then the distant roar of the highway would startle them awake, and they would think, we should head back before it gets dark, and then they would both say nothing.

After a long while, Gawain sighed and sat up, stretching. He'd been cut in several places, though none badly enough for him to consider serious- though his definition was skewed- covered in brand new bruises, sore in places he didn't remember could even be sore, but overwhelmingly satisfied with himself.

“Well?”

“I guess we should go,” Lancelot admitted, reluctant to get up, “you have to feed your cat, probably.”

Gawain stopped, dropping his arms, “my what?”

“Your cat?”

“Lancelot,” he said, rolling over to be practically on top of him and forcing eye contact, “look at me. What the fuck do you mean my cat? Lancelot, I do not own a cat.”

“I- what? I swear to god you have a cat, its orange. I saw it behind the boxes of horse medals in your closet.”

Gawain turned a bit pink at the mention of his bougie-est undergrad extracurricular but did not allow himself to be distracted.

“When was this?”

“Uh, about two days ago?”

Gawain stood, “I suppose now we really do have to go then.”

* * *

> Gawain: hey you guys havent seen any. Menacing omens lately have you?
> 
> Agravaine: other than lamorak?
> 
> Lamorak: other than agravaine?
> 
> Bedivere: ill mute you two again, behave yourselves
> 
> Bedivere: also no? Why do you ask
> 
> Gawain:....
> 
> Gawain: no reason
> 
> Kay: christ gwalchmei
> 
> Kay: if i have to clean blood out of the grout again because of your ability to attract magical bullshit ill incinerate you
> 
> Gawain: noted!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i say this every chapter but. sorry mabon. mean lady first. also god shout out to the discord for making me want to change this from gen because agravaine is so fucking funny. im holding strong at the moment but jeez well see


	12. Forced Exposure therapy and a Lot of Mist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cool magic, dogs, more orkneys, mcdonalds and brand infringement

> Lamorak: WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS EMAIL YOU SEN TME
> 
> Bedivere: being a knight of the king means you do what the king says, unless youve forgotten
> 
> Lamorak: but why do i have to be there?!
> 
> Bedivere: the king says its exposure therapy.
> 
> Bedivere: i give you maybe a 20 percent chance of dying and a 5 percent chance of escaping uninjured
> 
> Lamorak: ...is this just punishment for getting arthur banned from Dennys
> 
> Bedivere: i mean its not not that

* * *

Gawain got to the docks twenty minutes before the meeting time of 8:30 prompt with Gaheris and Gareth in tow. They arrived just in time to wait thirty minutes for Lamorak and Agravaine, who had drawn the short straw because Gawain's bougie car only seated four, and one seat was taken up by a bunch of swords he refused to move to the trunk. Mordred had dodged the order to accompany them by simply not showing up and refusing to answer his phone.

Lamorak pulled up to the docks, parking diagonally across two spots. 

“Not sorry I'm late. I stopped at Mcdonalds and didn't get anything for any of you,” he announced, holding a paper bag and looking like he didn't want to be there, which he didn't. 

Agravaine got out and slammed the door closed, scowling and red with what could be assumed to be rage. He stalked over to his brothers, purposely ignoring Lamorak, who waited a few yards away from the collective Orkneys. Only Gareth looked particularly happy to be there, but Gawain was at least managing to be somewhat pleased for him. 

It's a shame we can’t get your wives back too,” Gareth said absently, checking the time and wondering where Vivian was.

The other three froze.

“What do you mean “your wives”? I'm the only one that married, I thought?” Gawain asked.

“Oh, crap,” he said, looking up from his phone, “did I forget to tell you? I got you married by proxy back in the 5th century- not to each other, to Lynette’s sister and cousin.”

“You could do that?” Gawain wondered aloud, while the two middle brothers were too shocked to respond.

“In Montana, you can still do it.”

“W-what's my wife’s name?” Gaheris asked, torn between curiosity and horror. Agravaine kept opening and closing his mouth then looking down at the muddy ground, then back up at Gareth.

“Lyonesse, she was known as a great beauty. Your wife was called Laurel, Aggy, not that you asked.”

“Huh!” Was all Gaheris could manage for a moment, “any chance…”

“Nope, not a sorceress. Sorry.”

Gaheris looked disappointed. Agravaine still looked shocked, and oddly disconcerted. 

“What the fuck,” he said finally, more a statement than a question.

“That's wild. You want the rest of my fries?”

“I dont need your fucking sympathy fries Lamorak!” He snarled, taking the bag anyway.

“Thought you said you weren't sharing,” Gaheris frowned, getting over his surprise wedding and subsequent widower-ing without much trouble.

“Not with you.”

“Why-”

Gawain elbowed Gaheris before he could finish the question, and gestured out to the water, which was beginning to twist around itself unnaturally, the mist atop it forming the silhouette of a woman, which grew clearer as it drew closer. 

She gave a little wave, and Gareth waved back, slipping his phone into his back pocket. 

“Hey kids! Sorry for dragging you all out so early, but I'm going to be opening up a gate and magic has been a little unpredictable lately.”

They all looked at Gawain, as Vivian began opening the gate to Avalon.

“Stop looking at me, I didn't do anything!”

“I'm sure whatever you did, it was unintentional. I just thought it might be good to have backup.”

“Oh, you'll be fine, Gawain is the best knight in the world,” Gaheris bragged, to his brother's obvious embarrassment.

“Tied for best,” corrected Gareth, who was never happy enough not to take the opportunity to compare Gawain unfavourably to Lancelot.

“It doesn't matter,” Gawain said, cutting off the argument before it could begin properly.

“I bet I could take you in a fair fight.”

The younger Orkneys rushed to counter this, even Gareth, as dramatic things continued to happen over the lake, baffling an elderly fisherman across the way. 

The water formed an ovular disk which opened into a flat surface like a mirror, it's surface placid and clear while its edges spun so rapidly they too looked almost still. Vivian gestured for them to enter, standing beside the mirror in what had been ankle-deep water and was now a patch of damp, rocky shore. Experienced with magical nonsense, Gawain went first, Gareth going right after. Then Gaheris, who was a follower at heart.

Agravaine looked unenthusiastic, torn between cowardice, which said he should definitely not go into the magic portal, and a different type of cowardice, which said he should definitely not be separated from his brothers.

“You don't have to go through if you're afraid,” Vivian told him, which was the exact wrong thing to say. 

“I am not! I just-”

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Lamorak said, grabbing Agravaine's wrist and marching through the portal with him in tow.

They arrived, after a few disorienting moments, on another rocky shore. But this could not even briefly be mistaken for the world they had left. Wisp lights twinkled out on the mist over the lake, and strange music played from no visible source. Every once in awhile laughter could be heard on the wind. And there was a filtered nature to the light as if it was something more than real.

Gawain was the only one who had been there before, and seemed unphased by it, while the others looked around them, amazed.

“It looks like we're in a period of calm at the moment,” Vivian noted, scanning what could be seen of the horizon through the unnatural mist, twinkling with distant lights, “If you would come with me? The rest of you should remain here and try not to attract attention.”

Gareth followed Vivian off into the gossamer white as the rest of them milled around. 

“Everyone stand right here and don't wander off. Don't follow voices or lights and for fuck's sake don't eat anything,” Gawain ordered, “also, don't-”

Then Gawain was abruptly tackled by what could only be described as a blue blur. His brothers rushed to help, but relaxed when they saw the identity of the attacker.

“Oh fuck- hey Clarissant,” said, wincing from his place on the ground. She jumped up, blue dress swaying and now slightly muddy, as was her idiom.

“You're injured!”

“It's nothing just- maybe don't tackle me like a linebacker next time, huh kid?” 

She began to apologize profusely as Gawain got back up, laughing.

“And who is this?” Lamorak asked Agravaine quietly.

“Kid sister,” he explained. Clarissant was just about to turn seventeen. Clarissant was always just about to turn seventeen.

“One of mother's little experiments.”

Lamorak grimaced. Sometimes in life, he had learned, you were presented with the chance to sleep with a hot older woman, and sometimes you should not take that chance because she turns out to be a sociopathic sorceress and all her children are unhinged and armed. 

“I sensed your magic!” she said excitedly to her older brothers, “why are you all dressed like idiots?”

“Well, I- oh no-” Gawain cut himself off, going a bit pale, “do you hear barking?”

They listened for a moment.

Slowly, Agravaine nodded, “ uh-huh. That's bad probably?”

“Well, it's certainly going to be embarrassing.”

The barking grew quieter, but Gawain only seemed more stressed by this. A figure began to cut through the haze, dogs swarming around.

Clarissant grinned and waved, “Hi Gwyn!”

* * *

Gawain added (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Orkney Bros

Gawain set the nickname for (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Clarissant

> Clarissant: hello! I have a telephone now!
> 
> Agravaine: hey again clare
> 
> Mordred: oh this is unbelievable
> 
> Clarissant: ???
> 
> Gawain: play nice!
> 
> Mordred: not only am i not the only bastard on the table, i'm not even the only bastard in the orkneys! My fucking brand is being stolen by you and the catholic fuck boy!
> 
> Gaheris: youre still the only orkney bastard born of incest and almost drowned as a baby
> 
> Mordred: wow gaheris! That does not make me feel better, actually!
> 
> Lancelot: Hi clarissant
> 
> Mordred: and why the fuck is he still here?? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once i finish this bit in the next chapter the orkneys are gonna take a back seat for a while, i promise. i really wanted this to be one chapter but it looks like no dice, so, uh, enjoy


	13. A Dramatic Speech and a Semistolen Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> standing on tables in the mall food court, a kiss exchange, a puppy, and bad news

Mordred added (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Bastard Club

Mordred set the nickname for (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Galahad

Mordred added (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Bastard Club

Mordred set the nickname for (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Owain2

Mordred added (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Bastard Club

Mordred set the nickname for (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Hector

Mordred added (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Bastard Club

Mordred set the nickname for (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Bedivere

Mordred added (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Bastard Club

Mordred set the nickname for (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Tor

Mordred added (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Bastard Club

Mordred set the nickname for (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Clarissant

Mordred added (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Bastard Club

Mordred set the nickname for (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Elyan

> Mordred: welcome, sinners
> 
> Galahad: what the hell
> 
> Owain2: hey can i not be called owain2 its pretty hurtful
> 
> Mordred: no

* * *

Mordred clapped his hands together to draw their attention, “I'm sure you're all wondering why I gathered you here-”

“It was actually pretty clear from context,” Elyan said. Mordred pretended not to hear him. Galahad sighed and went back to his book, which had the dust jacket of King James Bible but was not, in fact, the King James Bible, but _was_ softcore porn. 

“I think bastards need more formal representation in the round table. We're going to form a new political system after all, one that must be kinder to us than the last one.”

Owain 2 raised his hand, and Mordred pointed at him.

“Hasn't primogeniture already been abolished?”

“Great question,” he said, stalling for time to hide the fact that he didn't know that, “technically yes, but we still face disadvantages. Like, I'm Arthur's son but Gawain is his heir.” 

“That's your problem, not ours,” Elyan countered, “ and besides, you're not the heir because you're insane and a murderer, not because you aren't legitimate.”

“To be fair,” Owain 2 admitted, “ Gawain is also insane and a murderer.”

Mordred scoffed, “legitimate? As to the legitimate: fine word,--legitimate!

Well, my legitimate- I grow; I prosper: Now, gods, stand up for bastards!”

“English major,” Galahad explained to the others as his friend continued.

“Wherefore should I stand in the plague of custom, and permit the curiosity of nations to deprive me, for that I am some twelve or fourteen moon-shines lag of a brother?”

“Okay, okay, I give in, let's move on,” Elyan pleaded, but Mordred was too into it to stop.

“Why bastard? wherefore base? When my dimensions are as well compact, my mind as generous, and my shape as true, as honest madam's issue? Why brand they us with base? with baseness? bastardy? base, base?!”

“Good lord, Mordred get off the table, you'll get us kicked out of the food court,” Galahad exclaimed, closing his book. Mordred looked around at the mostly empty seating area and single drowsy looking mall cop, and climbed off the table.

“I would argue that you're not as generous of mind or well compact of dimension as Gawain,” Elyan said, regretting the decision to come along. His father wanted him to make friends his own age, which was basically meaningless seeing as they were all now the same age.

“He's at least better than Agravaine,” Galahad said, more willing to be kind since Mordred had gotten off the table and was sitting down.

“Look, I want you all to go out there and confront your fathers and demand your inheritance and legitimacy under the law, and when I bring it up in the next meeting I want you to back me up, alright?”

“If I say yes will you let me leave?” Elyan asked.

“I think if youre all about bastard liberation or whatever, you should stop calling me Owain 2 just because Owain is legitimate,” Owain 2 said.

“Yes to the first question, no the second. It would get confusing.”

Owain 2 sighed, and the meeting began to disperse. 

Only Mordred and Galahad were left, the first looking irritated, the second bored.

“The bible must say something about bastards,” Mordred speculated, and grabbed the book, causing Galahad to panic and punch him in the face.

“Oh, Lord, God, I'm so sorry, fu- god,” he said, snatching the book back and feeling guilty for multiple reasons.

“You are a fucking insane person,” Mordred noted, grinning through what would be a black eye by tomorrow, and seeming almost approving. Approval, Galahad thought, was probably a bad sign from this particular direction. Maybe he just wouldn't tell Beth about this.

<hr>

Gawain had been right. It was, infact, embarrassing for him. It was embarrassing when half his family found out he'd once slept with Gwyn ap Nudd the leader of the Wild Hunt, and it was embarrassing when Gwyn asked for three kisses in exchange for the hunt passing peacefully, and it was very embarrassing when his instinctual need for one upmanship reared its ugly head and Gawain found himself asking for ten kisses in exchange for the first creature his saw when opening his eyes.

But it wasn't embarrassing when Gawain managed to predict the movements of the dogs and set eyes on Dormarch, Gwyns favorite and best hound. His apartment didn't even allow dogs. He probably hadn't thought this through, he realized as a disgruntled Gwyn left them alone again, minus one favorite dog.

“You only really trade in one kind of currency, don't you Gawain?” Lamorak noted dryly as the sound of barking got louder and then disappeared. 

He flushed, “I don't want to discuss that.”

“How many pagan gods have you fucked?”

“I don't want to discuss that either!”

“I also don't want to discuss that,” Agravaine said, clearly uncomfortable. Gaheris nodded.

“Instead,” Agravaine started, desperately trying to redirect the conversation away from his brothers brief fling with a Welsh psychopomp, “we should worry about when Vivian and Gareth are getting back with Lynette, and how we are going to explain the DEMON DOG!”

Dormarch barked in agreement, an ancient and vicious sound, and they all winced. 

“I just thought, Cavall's not here anymore…” Gawain trailed off as they all glared at him, then looked to the massive black hound which was about the size of a pony, with the personality of a rabid goose. 

“I like him,” Clarissant announced, and patted Dormarch on the head. He took it with surprising aplomb. 

“HELLO ASSHOLES!” a voice called suddenly, and they all turned to see Gareth, holding the hand of a short, redheaded woman. Vivian followed behind, looking bemusedly at the pair.

“Agravaine, you look like you're still a virgin, Gawain, looks like you got a dog in order to replace the boyfriend that dumped you to go back to fairy land and then your wife that dumped you to go back to fairy land, Gaheris, I guess you're here,” she glanced at Lamorak, “and I actually have no idea who you are. Oh hey Clarissant.”

“Hi!”

“Guys look! It's Lynette!” Gareth said, beaming. 

“Yeah I noticed,” Agravaine was significantly less pleased than Gareth. 

“Can we leave now?”

Vivian blew out a breath, looking nervous, “Actually, well. Some us us can leave."

Gawain blanched, “Fuck. They're holding you to that? We were only here a few minutes, and only on the edge, it should be alright to-”

She shook her head, “normally it would be fine for a short visit, but, someone has the spirit world in an uproar.”

“I didn't do anything!”

“Hmm, I'm sure,” she brushed off his claim and surveyed them, looking regretful, “I can come and go as I please, but for you, the same number that enter have to leave. I can get the two that stay out soon, and I'll keep you relatively safe- as safe as you can be in a place like this- but two of you have to stay behind is Clarissant and Lynette are going to leave.”

“I'll stay,” Gawain volunteered immediately, but Vivian shook her head.

“Bringing you here made whatever you did worse, you staying longer than needed would be a mistake.”

He swore, at the thought of leaving any his brothers behind, but had to bow to her wisdom. After a long and heated and frankly melodramatic discussion, it was decided that Agravaine, being the next oldest, had the responsibility of staying, and that Lamorak, as the person they cared about the least, should also stay. His brothers practically had to drag Gawain back through Vivians portal, and as Gareth, Lynette, Gaheris, Gawain and Clarrisant spilled out onto the more mundane shore, he cast one guilty look through the spinning disk at his brother trapped in Avalon. 

Back in Tir na Nog, or whatever they were calling it, Lamorak sat down on the beach to wait for Vivian to come back. Agravaine kicked the dirt a few times.

“I can't believe this. This fucking sucks.”

“At least we still have cell service.”

Agravaine abruptly stopped kicking the dirt, “we what?”

* * *

> Agravaine: minute twelve of being ABANDONED BY MY BASTARD FAMILY IN FUCKING FAIRY LAND
> 
> Gaheris: get over yourself it's been twelve minutes
> 
> Gaheris: if it makes you feel better, gawain cried a little bit
> 
> Agravaine: that actually does make me feel better 
> 
> Lancelot: wait what happened?
> 
> Agravaine: ok seriously how the fuck are you still here. 
> 
> Lancelot: …
> 
> Gaheris: dont wait up for defense, gareth just ditched you for his wife and gawain is still crying
> 
> Agravaine: i on the other hand, have literally nothing to do except cyberbully you
> 
> Lancelot: please dont i'm sensative
> 
> Agravaine: i know thats why its fun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im stressed and im writing so. second new chapter today lol. its a running gag at this point but mabon next chapter for real i swear to fuckign god, that horny pagan WILL be here so help me lord


	14. Everyone Is Having A Pretty Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a phone switcheroo, math, rocks, and galahad does a bad thing

> Galahad: salutations
> 
> (2 minutes later)
> 
> Galahad: okay that was too formal. Hello
> 
> Galahad: hi
> 
> Galahad: hail and well met
> 
> Galahad: salve
> 
> (35 minutes later)
> 
> Galahad: salut?? Bonjour???
> 
> (46 minutes later)
> 
> Galahad: okay go to hell i hate you
> 
> Lancelot: what? hi? sorry i was asleep
> 
> Galahad: Sonnez les matines, pute
> 
> Lancelot: ?????
> 
> Galahad: uh
> 
> Galahad: belay that

* * *

“Bad,” Galahad repeated over the phone. 

Mordred shrugged, then realized that wasn't something communicable over telephone, “yeah you said. What does that mean? You can't just call me and say words at me.”

“I did a bad thing!”

“When you punched me?”

“No- well- yes, but another, different one,” Galahad tried to explain, “I was thinking about what you said yesterday about confronting your father and demanding things,”

“Yeah?” Mordred interrupted excitedly.

“-and I decided it was not good advice, but I did start thinking maybe I should try to get along better with Lancelot.”

Disappointed, Mordred gestured for him to continue, then remembered again, “continue.”

“I panicked, quoted a nursery rhyme and called him a whore,” Galahad finished, then waited several minutes for Mordred to stop laughing.

“It's not that funny.”

“It, really, really is,” he insisted, but sensing Galahad's already frayed patience was wearing thin, attempted to become serious, “but really, what do you expect me to do about this?”

Galahad blinked, and asked himself the same question, “I- I don't know. You've never been helpful in the past, but praying failed to produce immediate results- I'm gonna go actually-”

“I can produce results! I can produce immediate results!” Mordred rushed to stop him from hanging up, “seriously, come over to my brother's apartment right now and we'll swap phones. Stealing your identity and using it to slutshame Lancelot is exactly what everyone would expect me to do.”

“That's- okay actually that's really smart. I'll be right over,” Galahad stopped pacing anxiously and grabbed his keys and wallet, before Mordred continued,

“But um, can you bring- fuck, you probably can’t get a live chicken huh? Raw meat, I guess? I'll explain when you get here-” there was a barking noise like if the devil himself was a dog, and a muffled sound of swearing, “bye!”

Confused, Galahad left his apartment, wondering what exactly he was about to walk into.

* * *

Lamorak threw another rock out into the white haze, and they waited for a splash that only sometimes came. Silence.

“That's 264 hits out of 678 attempts, for a hit rate of 37.9 percent. You have to throw it with a velocity of 21.89 meters per second at minimum to reach the water, unless you change the angle of upward velocity.” Agravaine noted, sounding bored. 

“What? How do you know?”

“Numbers are easy, and I'm bored,” he shrugged. It wasn't a skill set which came up a lot when one was a knight.

“Just like your m-” Lamorak stopped himself, remembering he had promised Percival he wouldn't be an asshole.

“I'll fucking beat you to death with a rock and no one would know.”

“No you won’t,” Lamorak said confidently, “you’re more afraid of being alone than you are pissed at me, and I won’t kill you because your brother is fucking terrifying.”

“So we're sort of at an impasse.”

Lamorak nodded and picked up another of the fist-sized black stones that littered the beach, “gimme the best angle on getting this into the lake.”

* * *

Galahad showed up at Gawain's door with a grocery bag and his phone, but held off knocking. Inside there was what sounded like the world's largest dog barking its head off, various people screaming in scots gaelic, and things being thrown. He texted Mordred that he was there and took a few steps back into the hallway while he waited. There was the sound of glass shattering.

The door cracked open and Mordred slipped out, took the grocery bag without asking and threw it inside then quickly shut the door. The barking abruptly stopped but the screaming continued on and off.

“Sorry, Agravaine got trapped in fucking Annwyn and Gawain is being a freak about it. Also our sister is back, also Gawain kidnapped a hellhound? It's been a weird afternoon.”

“.... I'll pray for you?”

“HE'S READ IT THE BASTARD HAS FUCKING READ IT I WILL KILL HIM AGAIN-” Gawains voice came clearly through the walls of his apartment, then broke off to continue in what sounded like Greek. Mordred didn't quite have the grace to look embarrassed.

“Agravaine's phone died because he kept messaging your dad for some reason, and Lamorak is leaving Gawain on read. He's getting weird about the rest of us, too. Weirder than normal anyway,” Mordred explained, holding out his phone. Galahad traded it for his and wrote down the password on the back of his hand.

“The screaming?”

“No, that's pretty normal. I mean the fact that this is the longest he's let me out of his sight since they got back. Speaking of,” Mordred opened the door and stepped back inside, “good luck with your dad!”

And slammed the door shut.

* * *

> Mordred: hey sorry this is galahad, mordred switched our phones
> 
> Lancelot: oh
> 
> Lancelot: then hes the third orkney to make me cry today
> 
> Mordred: :/
> 
> Mordred: anyway. I was wondering
> 
> Lancelot: so you dont think i'm a whore right?
> 
> Mordred: no?
> 
> Mordred: look i was wondering if you could help me with something
> 
> Lancelot: i only have one kidney left but you can have it
> 
> Mordred: ….
> 
> Mordred: its a different thing

* * *

“So…. whats 156894 divided by 8?”

Agravaine thought for a second, poked at the dirt with a stick, and answered, “19,611 uh- and three quarters.”

“5678 times 9876?”

“Are these just random numbers?”

Lamorak nodded. He had given up on throwing rocks after the first few hours and was now sitting on the beach, ignoring his phone, which was currently sitting at 567 missed messages from Gawain and about 14 from everyone else.

“Okay. Uh, 56,075,928.”

“345 times- oh, what the fuck?”

The lake surface had started to whirl together, the mist clearing to reveal clear black water that stretched out forever, in all directions including downwards. Vivian appeared next to them, materializing from the fog.

“We going?” Lamorak asked, standing.

She looked apologetic, “ no, but something is coming. Take this-” she handed him a sword from out of thin air, reached into the air again, looked at Agravaine, and pulled out a handgun. He was only halfway decent with a blade, and that was when he had the guts to get close enough to use one.

“Try not to breathe in,” she recommended. Then disappeared.

“Your brother is going to fucking kill me,” Lamorak said dryly, as a giant scaled body emerged from the water. Agravaine did not respond.

* * *

> Gawain: i am going to cut open your stomach, pull out your guts and feed them to you creating an infinite loop
> 
> Gawain: ill rip off your cock and shove it up your ass
> 
> Gawain: i'm sorry please answer
> 
> Gawain: please answer
> 
> Gawain: ill suck your dick
> 
> Gawain: seriously i know you’re reading these
> 
> Gawain: please
> 
> Gawain: i am going to cut off your head and mount it on my wall
> 
> Gawain: lamorak please
> 
> Gawain: i think weve all said some things we regret. Give agravaine your phone rn and all will be forgiven
> 
> Gawain: please
> 
> Gawain: okay thats it i'm burning down your apartment i got your address off bedivere
> 
> Gawain: you know ill do it i'm fucking insane
> 
> Gawain: please?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think the funniest running gag in this whole series is my fuckin mabon-baiting in the end notes so. mabon next chapter!  
> also huge shoutout to rey for helping me do math ur an angel and i would kill for you


	15. Pagans and a Quarterly Performance Review

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the suggestion box, a dragon briefly, a test, and vexillology

> Lancelot: I will do literally anything you ask without hesitation but please please please
> 
> Lancelot: please just tell me who has what phone i'm literally so confused
> 
> Galahad: its me, we switched back. 
> 
> Lancelot: oh, okay good, thank you. What is it you need help with?
> 
> Galahad: that was a lie its still mordred
> 
> Galahad: but he wants you to come to apartment tomorrow, heres the address (link)
> 
> Lancelot: okay? Thank you?
> 
> Lancelot: so i just looked up the address and its an abandoned lisa frank factory.
> 
> Galahad: sorry, just a little joke. Heres the real one (link)
> 
> Lancelot: this is a therapists office
> 
> Galahad: yeah, you need one. 

* * *

They were at Kay's house, because Gawain apartment had been destroyed and was currently occupied by a demonic dog that was definitely not allowed in the lease. And besides, Kay had offered to cook dinner and get them groceries and that was too good an offer to pass up. Still feeling a little bad about yesterday's “mental breakdown” or whatever, Gawain had let them use his card for everything. He arrived first, along with Gareth, Mordred and Gaheris, so he could more easily apologize to all the people he had screamed at over the phone, threatened bodily harm to or actually performed bodily harm to recently.

The results were mixed. Lancelot forgave him immediately, but that meant basically nothing. Gawain could cut off Lancelot's arm and he would have been insisting that  _ it's really fine, I don't mind, it's my fault for having an arm and being in range in the first place so I'm not mad at all-!  _ before he even knew to start screaming.

Kay was not nearly as forgiving, nor was Lamorak. His brothers had taken a bit as well, but he had worn them down with a lot of crying and bribery. 

It was late enough that though it was a weekday, all of them that attended college were out of classes, and those that worked were off. They ate and mostly underappreciated Kays food in a rush to eat the prepackaged garbage candy that was dessert, but finally they were assembled in the backyard- there was no one room large enough to hold them. Morgan was standing at the front with her back to the white painted side of the neat suburban two bedroom, Arthur and Guinevere seated on lawn chairs next to her. Vivian was not at front with the rest, elected to sit on the grass with her son. There was an unspoken tension between her and the other three.

“First order of business, let's review the tapes,” Morgan suggested, and the outside wall of Kay's house became a projected image, which showed the misty bank. A projected Lamorak threw a rock which landed a few feet short of the water, and a projected Agravaine laughed at his failure. Projected Lamorak threw a much smaller rock at Agravaine, which missed.

“What the fuck, Aunt Morgan?!” Agravaine demanded. She looked at the baffled faces of those assembled unapologetically.

“It's been a while. I thought we should see whether your lot was still any good, and you were already going to Avalon, I figured- let's send out something easy enough and test how you deal with it. You were never in any danger.”

Lamorak gestured at his bandaged arm, as if to say it begged to differ. Arthur shifted uncomfortably, making it immediately apparent to the assemblage that he had been aware of this plan, and didn't feel good about it.

“Look,” Arthur said, “I know you have reason to be upset, and we will address that. But let's at least watch and see if we can learn something, alright?”

They turned their attention back to the magical screen, where Lamorak had given up on throwing rocks and was shouting out random numbers for Agravaine to multiply. Morgan waved her hand and it skipped ahead, landing about ten minutes into the fight.

A shot glanced off its leg, leaving only a shallow streak of opened skin, leaking toxic ichor.

“ _ Try using math on it _ ,” Lamorak suggested, dodging a swipe of claws.

“ _ Fuck you! _ ”

“ _ Right in front of the dragon? _ ”

The projected Agravaine pivoted away from the beast to aim the pistol at Lamorak, who was too busy not getting eaten to notice. He switched back to the dragon, then to Lamorak.

“You seriously considered shooting me, didnt you?” Lamorak asked, not particularly surprised and even less offended. 

“Yeah, well, I didn't, you’re welcome.”

Things were not going well on screen. Agravaine finally landed a semi-solid hit, and the creature lashed out wildly, catching Lamorak's arm, poison gas spewing from its mouth. It was then the gun either jammed (what Agravaine claimed) or he panicked (what Lamorak claimed) and the weapon was utilized in a manner both less effective and very different from its intended operation; namely, it was thrown as a projectile. It did, in all fairness, land a direct hit. 

“How the fuck did you guys salvage this?” Bedivere asked, watching in horror.

“We didn't,” Lamorak explained, “This is about when…”

“Mabon showed up,” Agravaine finished reluctantly.

“Hell yeah I did!” said Mabon from the room's entrance, leaning on the doorway watching the proceedings.

“Shut up,” Agravaine told his cousin, without much real vitriol.

They watched Mabon arrive and bail the pair out, his mother following quickly behind and opening a portal, accompanied by an anxious and apologetic Vivian, who was apparently the only one, of what they were beginning to consider the inner circle, who had not been forewarned of this plan.

“Piss poor showing, Aggs,” Gaheris said, damningly echoing the general consensus.

“In all honestly it was supposed to be Gawain, but I didn't predict that he would go and fuck up the spirit world.”

They were all too distracted by Gawain's frustrated protests that he hadn't  _ done anything-!  _ To notice the way his brother's face fell.

“So I think the first order of business is that we need to start up actual training and practice again. Old skills and new,” Arthur said, and the knights nodded sheepishly. 

“As my martial, Bedivere is in charge, and Gawain will act as assistant. I leave the details up to you, but I expect you to start up properly by Monday.”

Arthur gestured for Kay, who brought him a shoebox with the words “suggestions” written in Arthur's hand.

“Now, I want to open the discussion up to general ideas, in a democratic way. So that the ideas will be judged on their own merit, rather than that of those that present them, I made a little box.”

“It's got stickers on it,” Lynette remarked, in disbelief. The king ignored her.

“Alright. suggestions for first orders of business once I reclaim my throne, here we go,” Arthur said, pulling a piece of paper from the box, “change the English flag…? Who suggested this?”

After a good thirty seconds, Galahad reluctantly raised his hand.

“Galahad. Why do you want to change the flag?”

“They stole it, your majesty,” he asserted, still looking like he’d rather be somewhere else, “It’s my shield and they took it for the flag. I’m not even English.”

“The flag is after St. George,” Bedivere corrected.

“St. George was a Roman soldier from Turkey,” Galahad said, annoyance overcoming shyness, “either way I’d like my shield back.”

“Okay,” Arthur said before either could say anything else, “I’ll take that under advisement. Moving on,” he drew another paper, “vote someone off the Round Table every week like on ‘Survivor’- Mordred, please take this seriously.”

“How do you know it was me?”

Arthur ignored that comment and pulled another slip.

“Make everyone get therapy.”

A few people nodded, but there was a general sense of self conscious resentment.

“I get some people want it, but I don't see how that's a top priority,” Tristan looked up from his magnus opium, “like, I'm completely fine, I don't need that.”

Dinadan laughed aloud.

“Well, Tristan, there is a lot to unpack in that statement but-”

Morgan silenced her brother with a gesture.

“Ooh,” she said, “you know what’ll make this more fun? A top ten list,” and she clapped her hands, turning a nearby potted plant into a gameshow style podium, as three gigantic screens appeared on the wall behind her, reading ‘Top Ten Knights who Need Therapy,” in bright flashing neon.

“Let’s start from the top with number ten- who wants to take a guess?” The screens flashed ten behind her.

Gawain stopped Mordred from raising a hand, “This seems a bit unnecessary, Aunt Morgan.”

“Aren’t you curious? Don’t you wanna know who number one is?”

“I think I can guess,” he said with a glance at Lancelot, who couldn’t even be offended because he agreed.

Suddenly the screens disappeared and the plant returned to normal.

Morgan turned to Vivian looking betrayed, “Hey!”

“That was very mean spirited, Morgan.”

“Moving on,” Arthur tried to cut the tension, mostly unsuccessfully, “that's all that was in the box, I should have put it out earlier. Are there any other suggestions?”

Gawain politely raised a hand. 

Morgan pointed to him, “yes, number six?”

“Six? That’s rather high,” he said, a bit offended.

“Do you need me to remind everyone about your psychosexual beheading fixation slash trauma?”

He flushed, “No, auntie.”

“Good. What is it?”

“I know you said that a plan is already in motion for him to reclaim his throne, so we should move on to other matters, but were sort of counting our thrones before they hatch here. Can we at least know the plan?”

The inner circle, minus conscientious objector Vivian, mulled it over, and finally Guinevere nodded.

“Yes, alright. Morgan, why don't you take ten minutes to prepare a presentation and in the meantime we are adjourned.”

Quiet conversation started on the lawn as they began to shuffle about and rearrange themselves, a few people going back into the house to see if there was any food left, which there wasn't aside from several untouched items they assumed to be large, sick oranges.

Galahad didn't move. He was still staring at Mabon, but he was looking more thoughtful than horrified, “Who is Mabon’s father?” He muttered to Mordred, “It can’t be Urien.”

“Secret for a secret. And it better be embarrassing.”

“You’re still not over that game?” 

Mordred shook his head.

“Fine, when I was twelve I was in love with a painting of Saint Sebastian. Is that embarrassing enough?”

Mordred burst out laughing.

“Raising his eyes with divine, impassioned gaze towards the Eternal Beauty of the opening heavens…” he said in a mocking sing-song cadence, “that sort of thing?”

“Making the most of your English major?” Galahad asked dryly.

“Oh, yeah,” Mordred scoffed, “and your degree in religious studies is so much more practical. Fuck off.”

“I gave you a secret, now tell me.”

Mordred grinned, “I dont know!”

“You-” Galahad was not going to punch him again. Once was a mistake, twice and he went to hell. He counted to ten in latin, skipping six because he had enough problems already.

“I'll owe you one, how's that?” Mordred offered, slightly concerned that he would be punched again. It was at that moment Mabon noticed the hushed discussion, and walked over.

“You know,“ Mabon said, sliding over to be practically on Galahad's lap, “I’m considered the Welsh version of Jesus. So maybe you should put your money where your Catholic mouth is about loving Christ, and put your Catholic mouth on-”

“Fuck off Mabon,” Mordred interrupted, an unlikely saviour, “get your own Christian.”

“Oh, boo. You’re lame.”

But he did, as his cousin suggested, fuck off, and moved to where his brother was excitedly interviewing Gaheris for every detail on Dormarch. After a few more awkward minutes, Morgan emerged from inside the house and Kay called for attention.

“Alright,” the screens reappeared with some sort of garish eighties inspired graphic display. Lancelot grimaced on principle of the color scheme alone. 

But before Morgan could begin properly, Vivian said something in a language none of them knew except perhaps Lancelot, who did not recognize this particular saying because, growing up, his mother had never sworn in front of him.

Then she disappeared in a cloud of mist.

“...huh,” Morgan said.

After a moment she appeared, looking concerned. The hems of her dress were still partially mist as she rushed to the front.

“Everyone please remain still and calm,” she said, knowing they wouldn't, “But I know what Gawain did to agitate Avalon,”

“I didn't do anything!”

“And it's going to be here in about ten minutes.”

  
  


* * *

> Gawain: aunt morgan
> 
> Gawain: dont even fucking think of doing that again
> 
> Morgan: are you trying to threaten me? Ill turn you into a frog and serve you to the du locs kid
> 
> Gawain: no, i'm asking nicely because i'm so polite and well behaved
> 
> Gawain: dont get mad because you fucked up. next time make sure its me.
> 
> Morgan: but i thought i was never doing it again
> 
> Gawain: ah fuck ur right
> 
> Gawain: look just dont
> 
> Morgan: dont what?
> 
> Gawain: just dont.
> 
> Morgan: ...okay i wont

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bet yall didnt think i would actually do it huh? but hes here, finally, and in the most anticlimactic way possible lol. i keep planning to write more like. fluffy content but ended up stalling it in favour of being mean to agravaine but. galahad and lancelot bonding chapter is real and WIll Exist Soon i swear to god


	16. Christmas Flashback and Explanations (Which Clarify Little)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ice cream, foxes, what happened last christmas, an ex wife and gawains no good very bad day

> Dinadan: so, general question. Anyone know what the fuck is going on?
> 
> Agravaine: no
> 
> Lionel: not once in either fucking life
> 
> Dinadan: well we have 7 minutes so like. I'm gonna go to dairy queen yall wanna come with?
> 
> Dinadan: yall means anyone who can fit in my car btw
> 
> Agravaine: i feel really bad about murdering you… ur actually a cool guy
> 
> Lamorak: do you feel bad about murdering me?
> 
> Lamorak: wait dont answer that

* * *

Gawain was lying on the ground. He hadn't been punched or anything, he was just having a stressful afternoon and thought horizontality would be calming, which so far it wasn't. 

“Don't you want to know who it is? I have more information,” Vivian asked him, looking concerned.

“I know who it is!” Mabon broke in. They all- Vivian, Guinevere, Arthur, Kay, Bedivere and Lancelot- turned to glare at him. The rest had either gone for ice cream or were putting whatever meager preparations in place they could, under Morgan's direction.

“No,” Gawain said blankly, “No I think I'll just let it wash over me.”

“That's very philosophical,” Said Bedivere encouragingly.

“It's always me. Why is it always me.”

Lancelot blinked, “oh, fuck. I just figured out what that cat was. The one I thought I saw in your apartment. It was a fox.”

Gawain shot up in panic, “Oh that's not good. I think that might not be good. Vivian is that not good?”

She frowned, “hard to say, there are a couple things that could mean. I know that the G-”

“No, no, that's nothing. We are good on that front!” Gawain said quickly, anticipating her thoughts, slightly flushed.

Kay turned to Mabon, “I know you refuse to interfere to help us, but would you interfere if it would embarrass your cousin? We only need another twenty minutes or so.”

“Say no more!” He said, and ran off. Kay turned back to Gawain, who was sitting on the ground looking halfway between nervous and resentful. 

“Now,” Kay continued, “why don't you explain exactly why you are, quote, “good on that front” to Vivian. It might be important.”

Lancelot didn't say anything, because he would very much also like to know and he didn't want to remind them that he was there and be sent away to be helpful. Reluctantly, Gawain gestured for them to sit, and began. 

* * *

_Four months prior_

“Guys,” Gawain said, clapping his hands for attention. Kay and Bedivere looked up from a card game. His brothers didn't look up at all. 

“I'd like to announce that I will not be available for a few days, and likely won't have cell service, but I expect to be back by mid January at the latest.”

“Okay,” Kay said after a pause, “you could have texted us that.”

Gawain shrugged, still clearly waiting for something. A good minute passed, and Bedivere decided to take pity on him.

“What are you doing over Christmas, Gwalchmei?”

“Well,” he started, flopping down heavily onto the sofa. They were at Kay's house, the hotel being under some kind of renovation in a last ditch attempt at a profit, hanging around after the end of a pointless meeting.

“I'm going to turn it around on him this year. This year I go to _his_ house, this year I demand he chop _my_ head off,” Gawain explained, clearly pleased with himself. The rest stared at him blankly for a moment, his family having decided that their eldest brother's plan was more interesting than mumbly-peg and Animal Crossing, depending on the brother. No one had to ask who “he” was.

“You think you can even find that place again? Or that it still exists?” Bedivere questioned. Gawain waved him off, confident.

“Bigger problem,” said Gareth, looking strained, “unless you forgot, you die if your head gets cut off.”

“No one has proven that.”

Kay sighed and put his head in his hands, dropping his cards, “I believe he means that to be a euphemism.”

“Oh,” Gareth said, “oh, ew.”

Gaheris winced, “Yeah, I agree. Ew.”

“Whatever, you guys are just jealous,” Gawain said, rising again and getting out his keys, “see you losers in January.”

Agravaine dropped the pocketknife he was holding, and Mordred jumped back as it narrowly missed his foot, “hey, watch it, dumbass!”

Brushing off his youngest brother, Agravaine turned to Gawain, “You're leaving right now? It's the twentieth!”

“I expect to be quite busy,” he stated, ignoring the chorus of groans from his siblings, “its chill, I left food in the fridge and paid all the bills till February.”

“So now you're gonna be gone till February?!”

“You can avoid burning down my apartment for three weeks, Aggs,” Gawain said dismissively, already out the door, which slammed shut behind him. This had been before Agravaine moved out of his brother's spare room. Or rather, why.

So the evening of the 20th of December, Gawain was driving into the wilds of the British countryside, which was actually more farmland at this point. He'd have to get out and hike after a point, and had briefly considered a horse, but it would feel too much like replacing Gringolet. So he pulled over around 11 at night when he thought he was as close as he could get on even a dirt road. It may have been a footpath- it was very narrow and the car was making unenthusiastic noises, but he paid that no mind. 

It was an annoying few hours, but he remembered the way, somehow, though the first time he'd taken the route was in a blizzard, half dead from exhaustion and cold, and honestly Gringolet did most of the work- but he knew, suddenly, as he was tramping through the freezing night, that he had crossed over, though it was impossible to tell when. 

Soon he saw a keep rising out of the woods, outlined against the blackness of the night with cheery, twinkling lights. The gates to the courtyard opened for him, and he heard sounds of singing inside, rushing to the door and knocking thrice- for three was always the number at which things should be done, in this place- before he could lose his nerve. The door swung open, and inside it was unchanged. It was the same porter, the same partygoers, the same feast even.

And the lord was there, equally unchanged, and pleased to see him, and for a moment Gawain, too, was unchanged. All the boldness of years washed from him leaving the painfully polite nineteen year old who had come here to die.

But no, that would not do. 

“I have come to offer a game,” He said, falling to one knee in deference but meeting the Lord's gaze brazenly.

* * *

“I'd really rather skip this section,” he said, looking slightly embarrassed, which was horrifying enough, considering how generally shameless he was, that they relented.

“Nothing else of consequence, or at least that I am willing to discuss, occurred but I have an invitation back next year, and, to put things in short, I am on good terms with The Green Man- or Bertialk, Lud, whatever. So it's a different fox.”

Vivian nodded thoughtfully, and seemed to zone out as if checking something. Guinevere put up her hand for a high five, which Gawain reluctantly gave. Arthur and Lancelot were looking confused. Which was about when Morgan got back, with Mabon in tow.

“No knights,” She said, shoo-ing them off, “No, Gawain, you stay. Nice try.”

“Wards up?” Vivian asked, and received a nod.

Morgan joined them on the grass, which her beleaguered nephew was nervously pulling up one blade at a time. 

“So, I have the complete answer, if you want it. Mabon got us enough time to get everyone up to speed.”

Gawain nodded, because his uncle ordered him to, and Morgan explained, voice matter of fact.

“First things first, the person arriving is your wife. She's just a delegate. What you've been doing is drawing on the power of the sun, without the bargain that allowed you to do so the first time.”

At his evident confusion, she shook her head in disappointment, “No, I'm not upset with you kid, I should have known your mother wouldn't tell you. The fact is, you don't get abilities like that for nothing- you were supposed to pay with an early death, feeding the seasonal cycle of continuous rebirth. In other words, you were intended to have your head chopped off in the Green Chapel.”

Gawain was looking stunned, and the rest of them were not much better. But Morgan was a rip off the bandaid sort of person, and charged on.

“I pulled some strings to give you a chance, and you passed the test, barely. You're lucky the executioner was so fond of you- at any rate, you paid in a symbolic death, rather than a literal one, and that was that.”

“But now he's back and using his power, and hasn't paid,” Guinevere summarized. Gawain was looking pale. She waved a hand in front of his face and he didn't react, and Morgan pretended not to notice.

“...my wife?” He said finally. Morgan rolled her eyes, “Yeah, Gods, is that all you absorbed from that?”

“No, no , I just,” Gawain was returning to reality, “I just mean, which one?”

“What do you mean which one? When else the fuck did you get married? Ragnelle.”

“Oh,” He breathed out, “that's fine then. But, wait, last question- what was with the fox? Because if I'm being honest, I've been seeing foxes a lot the past few days, on roadsides and rustling through the bins and things.”

Morgan thought about it, “I'm not completely sure. Part of it is just that you're back to being a magical weirdness magnet-”

Gawain swore, and she ignored him, “They're also messengers and guides. And…” she frowned, “well, there is _the_ fox, but let's hope it's something else. That thing is fucking awful.”

Mabon tapped his mother on the shoulder politely, “She's in the driveway.”

“Oh cool! Oh that's so cool! Excellent!” Gawain muttered, as his cousin pulled him to his feet and began half dragging him around to the front, the rest following close behind. 

Ragnelle was leaning against his car. Her hair was still long and red and curly and braided through with flowers, but she was wearing black jeans and a loose sweater under a heavy flannel jacket. 

“Hello, husband.”

Gawain almost said something about how _she_ was the one who left _him_ , so he didn't know what that tone was for, but he thought better of it. 

“My Lady,” He said respectfully.

“Ready to get going? You won't be gone long, unless you're gone forever,” she noted helpfully. 

He shrugged, “yeah, okay. Be back in a bit, or never.”

Ragnelle nodded and snapped her fingers, and they both disappeared. 

“Well,” Arthur said.

“Yeah,” his sister agreed. 

* * *

> Agravaine: i cant believe i was gone for 30 minutes and my brother got kidnapped by pagan deities or whatever
> 
> Mordred: morgan says hell be fine
> 
> Mordred: probably
> 
> Lancelot: wait WHAT happened??
> 
> Agravaine: how do i know and you dont. i wasnt even there!
> 
> Lancelot: … 
> 
> Lancelot: i fell asleep
> 
> Agravaine: i cant believe you killed me. its so embarrassing. like if bedivere killed me id be mad but this is just, i mean wow. like ur the worst.
> 
> Agravaine: upside of the kidnapping, now i get to eat his ice cream, too
> 
> Agravaine: AND i'm the eldest now. I have so much power
> 
> Gareth: im glad youre thinking positive!
> 
> Gareth: but you arent in charge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well one orkney has been swapped for another. but dont worry, we wont see him again for a bit, but hes fine, probably. its time for the french to shine, or whatever


	17. Catholicism is a Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a horrifying den of misery, fireballs, JSTOR, and an abrupt return

> Agravaine: so as the new leader of the orkneys
> 
> Gaheris: mordred is the new leader
> 
> Agravaine: AS THE NEW LEADER OF THE ORKNEYS
> 
> Agravaine: I vote to kick lancelot off our group chat
> 
> Gaheris: oh, seconded
> 
> Mordred: third
> 
> Gareth: no!!
> 
> Clarissant: No way! He's nice :3
> 
> Lancelot: i vote to kick lancelot off the orkney group chat
> 
> Agravaine: 4 in favour, 2 against
> 
> Mordred: wait. We would be playing into his hands. This is what he wants
> 
> Lancelot: yes, it is! please!
> 
> Agravaine: alright he stays
> 
> Lancelot: fuck

* * *

Lancelot knocked on the door of what he was only about ninety percent sure was not the derelict manufacturing plant of pink neon stationary. The door opened a crack and Galahad peeked out.

“Hey, don't freak out, it's kind of messy.”

Trailing off midway through an assurance that it was fine, Lancelot stared in surprise at the- well, carnage seemed more appropriate than mess. Taking it all in, in the embarrassed silence, it became clear that there were two distinct categories of wreckage. One was more run of the mill dirty clothes, dishes, ruined appliances and half discarded projects. The other was almost more worrying, because it was terrifyingly clean, piles upon piles of books, papers and inscrutable objects and boxes, labelled. In Latin. 

“Um,” Galahad said. Then, “Oh- Jesu-” and grabbed Lancelot by the back of his shirt and pulled him back into the doorway in one smooth motion, as what could only be described as a fireball shot past. Pushing down unpleasant memories of being called out by the Lord of Heaven via cup delivered inferno, Lancelot stuttered out a demand for an explanation.

Galahad shrugged apologetically, “sorry, I lost track of time. Mordred got one of those timed air freshener spray things and put a lit candle in front of it, which he got Morgan to make permanently aflame. It goes off every fifteen minutes.”

Lancelot looked across the room to the scorch marks on the opposite wall.

“I know I'm not getting the deposit back.”

“Mordred?”

“He's my roommate. Did I not tell you that?”

“No?” 

Galahad began picking his way through the room and Lancelot, after a moment of hesitation, followed him. Some of the stacks reached almost to the ceiling, and he noticed that in addition to the books there were what looked like 3D printed copies of statues, white plastic monuments of scale ranging from pocket to life sized. And antiques- weapons mostly, spears and daggers but also maps and paintings and even a round shield with the chi-rho painted on it.

He didn't say anything as a door appeared behind a particularly prodigious stack of texts, and, stepping over the miniature white plastic St. Peter's Baldachin, was filled with a numb confusion. Lancelot was almost certain he was going to wake up any second as they entered a plain hallway, and then another room. Galahad closed the door behind him. 

The space was shockingly plain after the nightmare of the general living space, with a neatly made bed, dresser, and desk with a closed laptop, lamp and nothing else. Lancelot took a few steps forward and breathed out, claustrophobic anxiety of the previous room already fading as he turned back, ready to blame all of it on Mordred.

Then he saw the wall the door was set in.

“Holy fucking shit.”

“I know,” Galahad grimaced, “Look, I know.”

“Holy shit,” Lancelot said again, with a sudden indelible feeling like he might die here in this room. On the wall upon which the door was set was what could only be described at the pinterest vision board of a Catholic serial killer.

“Don't freak out,” Galahad pleaded, “do not freak out.”

“I'm not freaking out,” Lancelot said, freaking out. There was a red string and everything like in a bad movie. There were cut out bits of texts, newspaper clippings, scrawled notes in Latin, Greek and Hebrew, a picture of Saint Sebastian that wasn't really connected to anything and was just taped in the corner, presumably for moral support.

“This is what I needed your help with,” Galahad started, taking Lancelot's silent consternation for acceptance of this development.

“Yeah,” Lancelot said, not knowing what he meant by that.

“I've been doing some research into the nature, history and location of the Sangreal,” Galahad had a laser pointer. Neither could remember when he had taken it out.

_ Bit of an understatement,  _ Lancelot thought distantly, eyes following the little red dot as Galahad gave the basic run down, which lasted forty five minutes. It started with the Holy Chalice of the Last Supper and ended at reported alien sightings in Finland only a few months prior.

“Ah,” Lancelot said, as Galahad finished. “That was certainly… thorough.”

“Well, I haven't got anywhere, I'm just running around in circles like an insane person,” He admitted, staring at his Wall of Horror in chagrin.

“Oh, no not at all like that.”

“Don't mock me,” Galahad said, frowning in such an earnest way that no one could have any hope but to accede.

“I'm sorry. It just seems very… scientific,” Lancelot tried, shifting uncomfortably.

“Yeah, well,” Galahad leaned against one of three non-terrifying walls and crossed his arms. “It's not like doing everything the correct way worked out for me last time. Why not be scientific about it.”

“Oh.” 

“I tried being the perfect Christian, following my destiny, staying pure- and I got to die repressed and unliked at eighteen. So this time I got JSTOR access.” Galahad explained, staring up unhappily at The Wall.

“Um, I liked you,” Lancelot offered, not exactly getting the crux of the issue but nevertheless making an attempt.

“The feeling was not mutual.”

A little hurt but attempting to maintain the illusion of maturity, Lancelot nodded, “Oh. Um, what about the summer we spent on the boat?”

“With the dead body?”

“Right.” He had actually forgotten about the body. At that point in his life he was so used to things like that he barely noticed. “So, uh, what exactly did you want me to help with?”

Galahad looked down, uncomfortably, “I, uh. Well, you're already doomed to the fires of hell, right?”

“Sure,” He agreed.

“So, I need you to break into a church and steal a holy relic.”

Lancelot blinked, “Oh.” He seemed to be saying that a lot. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Great, God bless.” Galahad took two papers down from The Wall, revealing more papers beneath. 

_ How deep does it go?  _ Lancelot almost asked as he accepted the papers, one from an old book discussing some relic, the other a pamphlet for an old church on the outskirts of London.

“Okay, well, you can leave now.” Galahad said.

“Oh-oh. Okay?” 

Disappointed, confused and generally unhappy- but then again he so often was those things- Lancelot was led out of the apartment, dodging another pine scented ball of flame, and deposited on the front step. Lacking any other course of action, he went home. Which was not actually his home, but he had a bed there so it was the closest thing.

To his surprise, Gawain's apartment was not empty. There was a Gawain in it.

“Uh… I thought you were in hell,” Lancelot said blankly. His friend was in the kitchen, surrounded by various cooking utensils that seemed to be more like a bevy of judgemental spectators than inanimate culinary tools.

“Avalon, yeah. A lot of stuff happened and I got stabbed and Vivian took Galatine back. Now I'm trying to make cookies,” he gestured around him to what Lancelot would have described as a mess if he didn't have the benefit of perspective now.

“You got stabbed?” 

Gawain nodded nonchalantly, pulled up his shirt a few inches to reveal bandages around his waist.

“Anyway, wanna help me make cookies?”

“...sure.”

* * *

> Mordred: so how did it go. Did the fire trap get him
> 
> Galahad: bad and no
> 
> Galahad: i didnt know what father son bonding looked like so i gave him a quest and made him leave
> 
> Mordred: hes probably gonna kill someone you know
> 
> Galahad: its not ideal. Next time maybe ill ask him to go on a walk or something
> 
> Mordred: next time go with him. murder is a great family activity. actually our only family activity
> 
> Galahad: yeah hows that working out for you
> 
> Mordred: are we sure theres nothing in the bible about being mean?

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah i couldnt last an entire chapter without gawain.. i know.


	18. The Merry Month of May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nothing ever goes wrong on may day in arthuriana!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dont worry i havent forgotten about guineveres may day deal, thats for next time :3

> Bedivere: hey so Arthur told me to text you happy birthday. I warned him that was in poor taste and he ignored me so
> 
> Bedivere: happy birthday slash drown-iversary 
> 
> Mordred: does that come with a check
> 
> Bedivere: ill ask
> 
> Bedivere: no. he said hell take you to wendys and you can get anything off the kids menu
> 
> Mordred: im 23 years old
> 
> Bedivere: i know. i told him. he just looked confused
> 
> Mordred: can i get a frosty?
> 
> Bedivere: he says yes
> 
> Mordred: then fine.

* * *

“We couldn’t even go inside?” Mordred asked, poking at a paper bag. He didn’t want to go inside, in fact, if they had, he would have complained about why they didn’t just use the drive-through. It was the principal of the thing, which was that pound for pound he didn’t have the moral high ground to be actually angry, but still felt the injustice.

“I didn’t think you would want to. We can turn around?” Arthur asked, raising one hand above the wheel of the sports car as if to make a sudden and violent about-face. The unfortunate demise of the loyal Altima had necessitated the frequent borrowing of Gawain’s car, which, since its owner was currently desanguinating in his kitchen, wasn’t busy. 

“No, it’s fucking fine. Where are we going? Are you gonna drive me out into the woods to kill me? If this was my last meal why didn’t you let me get two frosties?”

“Why do we always have this conversation in a moving vehicle?”Arthur asked aloud to himself. Then, to Mordred, “Of course I'm not going to kill you. I know I did try to do so twice, and that does sort of, uh, weaken my position here, but I promise, never again!”

The grand proclamation didn’t go over nearly as well as he’d hoped, but after a second Mordred shrugged. “I mean the second time was sort of on me.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Arthur says firmly. “Still my fault. And Lancelot’s, a little bit.”

“Yeah, god, fuck Lancelot,” Mordred agreed, enthusiastic about changing the subject to bash on his favourite scapegoat. Anything to avoid more honest heart to heart. At this point, he would even take Gawains constant “All ABBA and Fleetwood Mac” playlist that they couldn’t figure out how to switch the stereo from. Then, his phone buzzed to indicate another opportunity to blame Lancelot for things.

> Galahad: i mean it just went catastrophically poorly. He thinks i'm an insane person
> 
> Mordred: you are.
> 
> Galahad: theres a real chance he kills a priest isnt there. I mean is this my fault??? Or his???
> 
> Mordred: his. Definitely. Always. Always Lancelots fault
> 
> Galahad: thank you. I agree.

“Really, it was Balin’s fault. For making that cursed sword,” Arthur contributed, enthusiastic about this mutual blame assigning activity taking the heat of his own actions.

“I thought that was Balan. And that’s Merlins fault. Hey,” Mordred stopped, growing almost serious, eyebrows knit together in righteous indignation, “This whole fucking thing was his fault. He’s the one that convinced you to drown babies and kept making cursed items.”

Arthur was pulling over into a rest stop at the side of the highway and shifted the car into park. He raised his drink, “to Merlin being trapped in a cave forever.”

Mordred rolled his eyes, but he raised his own drink in a toast, “to Vivian.” Then, “Wow, you parked like shit.”

“I'm a sixth-century legendary king. Please be patient with me,” Arthur said earnestly. “Also, we’re here.”

“Where’s here?” Mordred asked, quickly taking possession of the bag, whose contents were now most generously described as lukewarm.

“The Forest Sauvage! I thought we could take a walk and find somewhere nice to eat. Like on a log or something.” 

Whatever assigned whipping boy based bonding had occurred dissipated like mist, and resettled over Mordred as deep discontent. “You want to sit on a log and eat cold fries and tell me about your wonderful childhood that I didn’t get to have? That’s your plan for my birthday?”

“I-- they aren’t that cold,” Arthur argued weakly. “You can warm them up. With magic.”

“I’d be just as likely to light the bag on fire. That’s all you have?”

“Er-- well I can say whatever you like. I'm very sorry, to start.”

Mordred sighed. “Its a start.” Then he turned and set off into the woods.

His father stared after him for a moment, then with sudden realization, started up. “No, that’s Giant Hogweed, its poisonous, Mordred don’t--” Arthur rushed after him into the woods.

* * *

“So. Do I want to know what happened?” Lancelot asked tentatively.

Gawain surveyed the room and the general state of things. “With the cookie or with Avalon? Because I think I mixed up 'teaspoon' and 'tablespoon'.” 

Lancelot winced and nodded, “yeah you definitely did. These are… really salty. But I was asking about Avalon.”

“Oh.” Gawain piled a stack of bowls and baking tools in the sink and got out more indicating that they were going to keep at it till success was reached. “Well, there was a great deal of arguing, at least three of my exes in the same room which isn't ideal, a fight broke out, I got stabbed, but don't worry, I also stabbed multiple people and basically won.”

“Nice,” said Lancelot, who against his better nature was generally in favour of stabbings, provided they were conducted in a healthy, sportsmanlike manner.

“Thanks,” Gawain grinned, and passed him flour and a measuring cup, held up three fingers and pointed towards a large bowl. “So, then I asked for an extension, because-- and no I don't believe this worked either-- because it was my birthday. Which it is.”

“Happy birthday,” Lancelot said distractedly, struggling to sift and measure at the same time.

“Thank you. So Vivian was like don't use your power and give me back the sword, we will reconvene in a week, and she portalled me to the docks and I came here. Then I remembered the stab wound and applied ace bandages like a champ, and now I'm making cookies.”

_ Wait, so you haven't seen a doctor? _ Lancelot should have asked. What he said was, “Oh, alright then. Was it four cups or three?”

“I don't know, I'm sort of guesstimating,” Gawain admitted, holding up a bag of sugar and pouring some into the bowl indiscriminately. “I asked Vivian for a recipe and she told me, but I was sort of woozy from the blood loss and teleportation so I don't remember the amounts very well.”

“How many eggs?” Lancelot asked, suspecting he knew the answer. Gawain made a vague gesture.

“Five or two. One of those.”

Lancelot went with two. “So you’re going back in a week?”

Gawain nodded and poured some more sugar in. “Ragnelle says they probably won’t have to sacrifice me, so that’s good. But I might lose my solar power so it’s good that we already fought. What have you been up to?”

“Uh,” Lancelot discretely snatched the salt from Gawain and measured in a careful half teaspoon. “Well, Galahad assigned me a quest. So that’s promising.”

“Hmm. Hey, we’re technically DILFs, aren’t we?” Gawain said, as if this was a normal statement, turning to fiddle with the oven. “Preheating isn’t real right? Like we can just put them in?”

Lancelot didn’t know how to respond to either of these statements. “You uh, you do actually need to preheat the oven.”

“Really? That’s ridiculous, it’s the twenty-first century. What’s the quest?”

“I need to steal a holy relic from a church. You want to help?”

Gawain pressed a few buttons and the put-upon oven beeped sadly. “I would love to rob a church. You want to do the mixer?”

“I think we can do it by hand.”

Gawain nodded and handed him a wooden spoon. Then he tensed, staring out the kitchen window. He rushed over to peer out of it, eyes narrowed.

“Uh…?”

“It’s back. It’s fucking back. Is this the same one you saw?”

Lancelot joined him at the window. For a moment he wasn’t sure what they were looking at, then a flash of orange by the bins caught his eye. There was a fox going through the garbage in the alley two stories below.

“I uh, can’t really tell. Foxes all sort of look the same. No real... Identifying features.”

The animal continued to rummage, finding what looked like a fast-food bag and sticking its snout inside.

“Other than a vulpine cast to the face, huh?” Gawain grimaced at the sight as the fox drew out its head, several fries between its sharp white teeth. “That’s the third fox I’ve seen since I got back.”

“Is that bad?”

Gawain shrugged and drew the blinds. “I dont know, I hope not. Hand me the spray so I can grease the baking sheets.”

They continued, making four batches which each managed to be inedible in their own unique ways despite Lancelots best attempts at ameliorating whatever Gawain was doing. It was not till blood began dripping on the kitchen floor that Gawain admitted maybe he should sit down and take a second pass at that stab wound, and even then he only agreed because they were out of flour anyway.

Gawain reluctantly granted that he should at least consult Morgan on the matter, and she arrived quickly with rudimentary medical supplies. 

And alcohol. 

And Kay, Bedivere, and all of his brothers, even Mordred, though he was in an odd and thoughtful mood, and was covered in bandaids and bruises from falling into a thornbush. He was not an outdoorsman, as the results of the Giant Hogweed marking him attested. But still, they managed to pass an unusually pleasant evening, engaging in friendly arguments, meaningless games and a great deal of drinking and take out food. No one even drowned or was kidnapped, so on the scale of May Days, it had gone marvellously well.

* * *

> Galahad: so. Would it be a poor reading of the room to say happy birthday
> 
> Mordred: only if u didnt get me anything.
> 
> Mordred: did you. Is it cool. Is it a cat
> 
> Galahad: did you want a cat? If you get a cat we have to stop the fireballs
> 
> Galahad: i got you a nice looking knife from an antique store. It looks like it might be haunted
> 
> Mordred: oh thats pretty good
> 
> Mordred: 7/10. For this day in general. 
> 
> Galahad: thats a passing grade
> 
> Mordred: oh dunk!
> 
> Mordred: wow. merry christmas, everyone
> 
> Galahad: its may

  
  
  
  



	19. Things Begin To Unravel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> midnight visitations, a tiny pieta, expo marker rehab tips, conjugation, and some gals hanging out in a field

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think anyone who knows me knows who th fox is at this point but wow why did i do that. i mean hes in sgatgk so hes fair game but wow.
> 
> also CHAPTER TWENTY HOLY SHIT yall everyone whoes read this far i love youuuu <3<3<3 i absolutely did no think this would end up being 20 chapters and still going but it is!!

> Tristan: hey why did you guys have a party and not invite me. Not cool
> 
> Agravaine: because youre awful and ruin everything
> 
> Tristan: bro wtf dont b mean to me i'm sensitive
> 
> Dinadan: no hes right. But hey what the hell why didnt you invite me. I'm fun, i bought you ice cream one time. Everyone likes me.
> 
> Palamedes: is that why you got murdered?
> 
> Agravaine: sorry
> 
> Kay: the answer is we didnt want to pay for more alcohol 
> 
> Dinadan: oh a noble reason indeed sir, the offense is forgiven
> 
> Tristan: i am going to crash your next party watch out. Live in fear

* * *

“Lancelot!” Gawain stage whispered from the doorway to the guest room Lancelot was staying in. “Are you awake? I need you.”

“Er,” half asleep, Lancelot took quite a few seconds to catch up. “What is-- are you-- not saying no, but do you actually want to? What are--”

“The fox. Lancelot. It spoke to me,” Gawain explained, ignoring or unaware of his friend's misunderstanding.

“Oh, I see,” Lancelot said, sitting up in bed. “Wait, what happened?”

Gawain apparently took this as an invitation to enter and sat down heavily on the side of the bed, an intense and slightly manic expression on his face, framed by wild and unbrushed curls.

“I was sitting on the kitchen floor, thinking.” Which meant raiding the fridge and eating untoasted bread out of the bag at three am. “And there was a fox. Sitting on the garbage can. How did he get in? How did he get in Lancelot?”

He really should have been more concerned for his friends mental well being at this juncture, but this was Lancelot, so he leaned forward with interest. “I don't know. Maybe through the window.”

“I checked the windows.” Gawain waved his hand dismissively, “you're underestimating him. Anyway, so he looks right at me and asks for a slice of bread-- uh, from the breadbox, and I get it and throw it to him. Then he asks if I want my sword back, and says if I do him a favour, he’ll get it back for me. Then he jumps off the trash can before I can answer and pops around the corner. I searched the whole house and he's not here.”

“Wow,” Lancelot said finally. “So, are you going to?”

Gawain looked thoughtful, running a hand through his hair. “I don't know. I feel like I shouldn't. But is that cowardice?”

Lancelot didn't know how to answer that. He has a bad track record when it comes to following magical animals, as Gawain, who had to rescue him following that particular incident, well knew. 

“I don't know. I'm very tired. I'm sorry,” he concluded finally. 

Gawain stared at him blearily for a moment. “Oh right. You sleep. Well, I suppose I'll leave you to it,” he rose reluctantly and paused at the door. “Lock your door. He could return at any moment.”

“I'll do that, thank you,” Lancelot promised, and was again left alone.

* * *

> Lancelot: hey is gawain. Okay
> 
> Agravaine: why are you contacting me. How do you have my number. Why would you think this was acceptable. Delete me from your contacts
> 
> Agravaine: and no he is not why do you ask
> 
> Lancelot: hes freaking out about foxes
> 
> Agravaine: as a concept?
> 
> Lancelot: i dont even know how to explain it but i think hes being haunted by one specific fox
> 
> Agravaine: yeah idk. I'm not my brothers keeper and all that, and my phone is dying and i'm not at home so. I'm blocking ur number good luck asshole
> 
> Lancelot: wait its 3 am where are you

(you are blocked from sending messages to this user)

* * *

“Oh my god, is that a tiny pieta?” Percival asked, peering around the labyrinthine stacks of the apartment. “It's so cute.”

“Yes. Stay focused.” Galahad said swiping a pile of papers off a large book and using it as a prop for a whiteboard. “I have reassembled the Grail Gang with some adjustments--”

“I was really the next closest thing you could find to Bors?” Mordred asked sceptically.

“The next closest thing already in this building, yes.”

“Nice.” 

“We should get Gawain. No offence Mordred.”

Mordred shrugged. “None taken.”

“He's my dad's best friend, it would be weird. And besides, he's trapped in Pagan hell,” Galahad countered, trying desperately to regain control. He waved the Expo marker around a few times, hoping that would do something. It didn’t.

“Actually he's fine now. I mean he got stabbed, but he's fine.”

“We shall pray for his good health,” Galahad said solemnly. “But before we do that, we are going to brainstorm next steps in searching for the holy grail.”

“Can I draw on the whiteboard?” Percival asked politely. Before a response could be made, Galahad's phone went off.

“Is that MCR?”

“No. What are you talking about? Shut up, shut up. Percival answer it!” Galahad demanded, before Mordred got any more ammo for blackmail. Percival answered it.

“Hi, Mordred,” he said chipperly. Mordred smirked and gestured to his own phone, which he had subtly placed a call on. 

“Confirmed my theory.”

“Percival,” Galahad said slowly. _ But whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also-- _ “Hang up the phone.”

He did so, made to close it, then paused curiously.

“Hey, why do you have so many pictures of Saint Sebastian on your camera roll? What’s up-”

“Give me that!” Galahad said, and tried to snatch it back from Percy, who let him take the phone, somewhat confused.

“But why do you have them?”

“He’s in love with the shirtless arrow painting,” Mordred said casually.

“I am not in love with Saint Sebastian!” He paused, “...anymore. I just like his commitment to God, and his attempts to forgive and reach out to people who hurt him.”

Mordred scoffed, “You like that he’s half-naked and tied up.”

“Oh, you shut it.”

“You can like more than one thing about someone,” Percival offered, hoping to forestall the argument.

“As a favour to Percy, I’ll let it go if you can help me with this grammar question. What’s the adjectival form of pus?”

“That would be pu- oh.” Galahad turned even redder, though with anger or embarrassment it was hard to tell, “nice try.”

Percival clapped his hands together, “Pussy. That’s what it is, right?”

“Percy, no!”

“No?”

“It’s actually purulent,” explained Mordred, only a little disappointed that he’d failed.

“Oh,” Percy said, “That’s way better, otherwise I doubt doctors could keep a straight face, what with how pussy means-”

“Percy!” Galahad exclaimed, looking about at the end of his rope with the both of them.

“What? I’m an adult.”

Galahad sighed heavily, clearly frayed. “Let’s refocus.”

* * *

> Bors: hey kiddo hows it going
> 
> Galahad: i'm filled with homicidal rage and the expo marker is dried out
> 
> Bors: just soak it in a bowl of hot water and leave it uncapped to dry for a few hours. Good as new
> 
> Galahad: ...that was not the main problem. You see that that was not the main problem yes?
> 
> Bors: well it was the problem I could solve from 1200 miles away
> 
> Galahad: … okay ill try the marker thing thank you bors

* * *

“Well,” said Guinevere, way too peppy for that early in the morning and that late of a night. “I think that May Day went remarkably well.”

“Don't use that word.”

“Which one?”

“Remarkable.” 

Guinevere quirked her head, and her flower crown almost slipped from her glossy dark hair. “Why not?”

Morgan shrugged. “I don't know, but every time I do Lancelot bursts into tears.”

“He does that quite a lot.”

“Interesting.” Guinevere stretched and looked around. “This is a nice field to pass out in. Good choice, last night me.”

It had been a long, weird night yesterday, which Morgan had enthusiastically tagged along on, for research purposes. She took a very academic bent to magic, and was very curious to see what exactly Guinevere did on May Day. The results were surprising, to say the least, but not remotely disappointing. 

But May Day was over, and the regularly scheduled programming, which was making fun of knights, was recommencing. 

Guinevere had sat back, a loveseat of vines and branches growing under her and beginning to swing gently, as she pulled out a utilitarian black binder, with front pockets and everything, from who knows where. Certainly not a pocket. She was scanning something, with a pen tucked into her dark hair.

“What, do you have homework?” Morgan asked sarcastically.

“The Gwyllion are in upset currently because they see our involvement with the ladies of the lake as a promotion of the Gwragedd Annwn over themselves. I'm reviewing their attendance and offerings last night to gauge the extent of their displeasure.”

“Boo. Who cares? Piss off whoever you want and kick their ass if they try shit. You’re powerful enough now.”

Guinevere looked up from her notes with friendly disdain. “Why did you put so much effort into overthrowing us? You would make an awful queen.”

Morgan reached up and pulled a twig from her hair. “For fun, mostly.”

“Ah.”

“Speaking of fun,” Morgan pulled out a mirror from thin air, and with it a small bag. “Your favourite nephew-in-law is, I would estimate, about an hour away from trying to seduce a priest.”

“Oh, joy.” Guinevere peered into the mirror. She had no qualms about spying on people.

They settled in on the botanical love seat and peered into the mirror. Guinevere waved a hand and flowers blossomed and bore fruit as a metaphorical movie snack.

In the reflection, things were already going hilariously sideways. 

* * *

> . .
> 
> (̧̣̘̬̟̫́͌͘͝͝͡?̷̦̦̯̯̜̿͋̑̕?̸̥̘̯̼͔̌̀̓̓͋͑̕̚̕͠?̡̺̩̳̠͒͆̏̅̈́̎̓̔͘͟͡)̵̡͈͚̰͉̗̭̪̍͑͂͂̈́͌͞͝?̨̦̻̝͇̈̌͌̊̈̾̔͝?̼̰̟̦̥̊͋̂̎̇̄́̑͢͢͞͠?̸͙͓̦̖̝̌͌̂̿̊̀̓̏̀̑?̴̨̧̗͉̖͈̤͉̪͕͌̊̑̽͝?̵̢̢̧͇͎̲͙̫̱͆͐͗͞?̢̛̛̺̤̪̮̿̿̿͘͘?̶̡͚͍̻̰͖̋́͂̂̇͑̒͡͡ͅ: hey kid. Gods own house, huh. Getting cocky?
> 
>   
>    
>  Gawain: hi morgan! I assume youre spying on me?
> 
> . .
> 
> (̧̣̘̬̟̫́͌͘͝͝͡?̷̦̦̯̯̜̿͋̑̕?̸̥̘̯̼͔̌̀̓̓͋͑̕̚̕͠?̡̺̩̳̠͒͆̏̅̈́̎̓̔͘͟͡)̵̡͈͚̰͉̗̭̪̍͑͂͂̈́͌͞͝?̨̦̻̝͇̈̌͌̊̈̾̔͝?̼̰̟̦̥̊͋̂̎̇̄́̑͢͢͞͠?̸͙͓̦̖̝̌͌̂̿̊̀̓̏̀̑?̴̨̧̗͉̖͈̤͉̪͕͌̊̑̽͝?̵̢̢̧͇͎̲͙̫̱͆͐͗͞?̢̛̛̺̤̪̮̿̿̿͘͘?̶̡͚͍̻̰͖̋́͂̂̇͑̒͡͡ͅ  :i'm keeping an eye on you like the caring aunt that i am
> 
> Gawain: is guin there. Hi guin
> 
> (̧̣̘̬̟̫́͌͘͝͝͡?̷̦̦̯̯̜̿͋̑̕?̸̥̘̯̼͔̌̀̓̓͋͑̕̚̕͠?̡̺̩̳̠͒͆̏̅̈́̎̓̔͘͟͡)̵̡͈͚̰͉̗̭̪̍͑͂͂̈́͌͞͝?̨̦̻̝͇̈̌͌̊̈̾̔͝?̼̰̟̦̥̊͋̂̎̇̄́̑͢͢͞͠?̸͙͓̦̖̝̌͌̂̿̊̀̓̏̀̑?̴̨̧̗͉̖͈̤͉̪͕͌̊̑̽͝?̵̢̢̧͇͎̲͙̫̱͆͐͗͞?̢̛̛̺̤̪̮̿̿̿͘͘?̶̡͚͍̻̰͖̋́͂̂̇͑̒͡͡ͅ  : she says hi. Also why is lancelot dressed like that. Is it for your sacrilegious heist or…?
> 
> Gawain: i actually. Have no idea
> 
> (̧̣̘̬̟̫́͌͘͝͝͡?̷̦̦̯̯̜̿͋̑̕?̸̥̘̯̼͔̌̀̓̓͋͑̕̚̕͠?̡̺̩̳̠͒͆̏̅̈́̎̓̔͘͟͡)̵̡͈͚̰͉̗̭̪̍͑͂͂̈́͌͞͝?̨̦̻̝͇̈̌͌̊̈̾̔͝?̼̰̟̦̥̊͋̂̎̇̄́̑͢͢͞͠?̸͙͓̦̖̝̌͌̂̿̊̀̓̏̀̑?̴̨̧̗͉̖͈̤͉̪͕͌̊̑̽͝?̵̢̢̧͇͎̲͙̫̱͆͐͗͞?̢̛̛̺̤̪̮̿̿̿͘͘?̶̡͚͍̻̰͖̋́͂̂̇͑̒͡͡ͅ : fascinating


	20. Yet More of the Same Catholicism

> (̧̣̘̬̟̫́͌͘͝͝͡?̷̦̦̯̯̜̿͋̑̕?̸̥̘̯̼͔̌̀̓̓͋͑̕̚̕͠?̡̺̩̳̠͒͆̏̅̈́̎̓̔͘͟͡)̵̡͈͚̰͉̗̭̪̍͑͂͂̈́͌͞͝?̨̦̻̝͇̈̌͌̊̈̾̔͝?̼̰̟̦̥̊͋̂̎̇̄́̑͢͢͞͠?̸͙͓̦̖̝̌͌̂̿̊̀̓̏̀̑?̴̨̧̗͉̖͈̤͉̪͕͌̊̑̽͝?̵̢̢̧͇͎̲͙̫̱͆͐͗͞?̢̛̛̺̤̪̮̿̿̿͘͘?̶̡͚͍̻̰͖̋́͂̂̇͑̒͡͡ͅ : hey kid can u get ur little catholic friend on the line. no reason just think it might be relevant soon
> 
> Mordred: what do i get out of this
> 
> (̧̣̘̬̟̫́͌͘͝͝͡?̷̦̦̯̯̜̿͋̑̕?̸̥̘̯̼͔̌̀̓̓͋͑̕̚̕͠?̡̺̩̳̠͒͆̏̅̈́̎̓̔͘͟͡)̵̡͈͚̰͉̗̭̪̍͑͂͂̈́͌͞͝?̨̦̻̝͇̈̌͌̊̈̾̔͝?̼̰̟̦̥̊͋̂̎̇̄́̑͢͢͞͠?̸͙͓̦̖̝̌͌̂̿̊̀̓̏̀̑?̴̨̧̗͉̖͈̤͉̪͕͌̊̑̽͝?̵̢̢̧͇͎̲͙̫̱͆͐͗͞?̢̛̛̺̤̪̮̿̿̿͘͘?̶̡͚͍̻̰͖̋́͂̂̇͑̒͡͡ͅ : nothing. try not being a horrible person.
> 
> Mordred: if ur gonna be mean to me i wont do it
> 
> (timestamped ten minutes later)
> 
> Mordred: morgan
> 
> Mordred: uh oh
> 
> Mordred: i was joking 
> 
> Mordred: are you mad?????
> 
> Mordred: please respond
> 
> (̧̣̘̬̟̫́͌͘͝͝͡?̷̦̦̯̯̜̿͋̑̕?̸̥̘̯̼͔̌̀̓̓͋͑̕̚̕͠?̡̺̩̳̠͒͆̏̅̈́̎̓̔͘͟͡)̵̡͈͚̰͉̗̭̪̍͑͂͂̈́͌͞͝?̨̦̻̝͇̈̌͌̊̈̾̔͝?̼̰̟̦̥̊͋̂̎̇̄́̑͢͢͞͠?̸͙͓̦̖̝̌͌̂̿̊̀̓̏̀̑?̴̨̧̗͉̖͈̤͉̪͕͌̊̑̽͝?̵̢̢̧͇͎̲͙̫̱͆͐͗͞?̢̛̛̺̤̪̮̿̿̿͘͘?̶̡͚͍̻̰͖̋́͂̂̇͑̒͡͡ͅ: what do i get out of that
> 
> Mordred: i cant believe i fell for that. fuck.

* * *

"Is this one of those things where we aren't supposed to kill anyone?" Gawain asked off-handedly.

Lancelot considered the point. "I think, generally, these days, it is considered pretty bad to kill unarmed priests."

"Oh, and Arthur's PR, I suppose. Well, that's alright. Is the cowboy outfit part of it, or unrelated?"

Lancelot frowned. "What?"

Taking one hand off the wheel, Gawain gestured vaguely at him. "I mean it's not not working, I just wondered-- that's just the aesthetic you're going for then. It's up on the left, yeah?" With a wild swerve, the sportscar rounded the side of a shiny bank building to pull up alongside what would be considered a very old church, to people who were not themselves older than the English language. 

With characteristic longanimity, Lancelot stepped out onto the pavement. "Gosh. I hope we don't rob the wrong church."

"Then we call it a warm-up!"

Gawain strolled boldly into the church, high on potential violence, the need to do better than his brother, and pain killers. Hoping whatever messy charm Gawain had that pulled and pushed the tide of his life would carry them through, Lancelot followed. It was a weekday morning, so the building was occupied only by elderly women and priests, who looked up upon their entrance before returning to their own private ruminations.

They sat on a pew where they could appear to pray while surreptitiously plotting.

> Gawain: so whats ur plan :3
> 
> Lancelot: i thought you had a plan
> 
> Gawain: give me thirty seconds
> 
> Gawain: okay I have a plan. the structure of a pilgrimage church is such that a relic is kept in the radiating chapel of the apse, but only for services and display, usually, it would be locked away.
> 
> Gawain: according to the internet the bishop of this diocese is one, creatively, john. i have the number of his office. im going to get my brother to figure out how to look like the hes calling, announcing that he is planning a surprise visit in half an hour. 
> 
> Lancelot: im already so afraid of this plan
> 
> Gawain: great! i already texted him so its in motion now :3

Gawain dashed off a few sentences that explained barely enough, stood smoothly, and strode to the altar, where a priest with a vaguely "in charge" look was shuffling through papers. He waited there politely a moment till he was noticed, then began to talk, a dangerous thing with him in any situation, turning on a smile with the wattage of a Super Trouper stage light. 

Fairly confident that Gawain could manage any Charisma-based competition, Lancelot navigated quietly to the vestry and then through a door which communicated very plainly he was not supposed to touch, disappearing from the scene. 

Center stage, mild panic had set in for the good father, and the young man leaning over the alter to inform him of this disaster was watching calmly. There was a great commotion over the next several minutes, several priests under the direction of the main one dashing off into various private areas. Everything was going pretty well until the bishop arrived.

* * *

"Oh no," Guinevere said, without much real alarm. "And it was such a good stupid plan, too."

Morgan, watching things come to a shocked halt in the church, smirked. "I bet he panics and tries seduction."

"I think fire. Magic item of my choice if I'm wrong."

"Deal," agreed Morgan, perhaps unwisely-- no one knew Gawain as well as Guinevere.

Guinevere pointed to the shimmering illusion. "I just won."

"Fuck!"

* * *

"Fire. Everyone likes fire, really," Gawain said aloud to himself, watching the boxes of backstores votive candles and incense go up. He did not exactly know what was going on, other than that _someone_ was decidedly not helping. He approved of impersonating religious figures on a general basis, but was rather offended on this particular front. He wished he still had a sword.

But the panic and upset when smoke began curling around corners like bashful felines sniffing at a stranger promised the situation would be coming around.

"Lancelot!" he said, upon sighting him. "New plan. The priests will attempt to ferry the relic to safety, I'll steal it from them, you beat up anyone who tries to stop me."

"Great," he said, with some guilty relief that they could resort to violence. 

They put the plan into action, cutting off two priests carrying a finely decorated box between them.

"Good lord, the fire is out of control," Gawain announced, running up in a spurious panic, "Give me that, we've got to get it out!"

"The bishop--" one began to protest. Lancelot punched him and took the box. For thoroughness, he punched the other priest, too, who dropped next to his peer.

"Subtle."

"Sure, you love subtlety," Lancelot joked, setting off down the corridor. "That's why you have your top four buttons undone."

"oh, boo."

And suddenly, a line of fire in front of them flared up, and the smell of gasoline flitted wildly about the building, settling over them like a liturgically damning raincloud. 

"That probably means nothing," Gawain said confidently, then picked up a lamp and unceremoniously shattered a window. "and look at that, we're playing right into your skillset."

"I didn't jump out windows for fun," Lancelot protested, already half out the second-story window with the relic under one arm. "If I break bones. Well, I won't be mad. But I'll be sad." 

Gawain rolled his eyes. "You live for this shit."

* * *

"And there he goes out the window. Two points to you," Guinevere updated the scoreboard

"Hold up," Morgan leaned forward, "what the _fuck_ is that thing?"

The Queen looked distasteful. "Huh. So Gawain wasn't just high on painkillers. There was a fox."

"Well, let's hope its a fox. And not the fox."

* * *

"Come on," Lancelot urged from the bushes below the window.

But Gawain wasn't listening "Holy shit. It's back. Meet you out front!"

Then he disappeared from the window.

Sighing, Lancelot began extricating himself and the stolen holy relic from the shrubbery. Inside, Gawain was pursuing a magical vulpine arsonist through a burning clerestory.

"Look, come out and talk, I won't hold a grudge about the sabotage." An orange tail disappeared into the thick smoke ahead. "And if you don't come out, I'll turn your mother into gloves and force you to eat them. I'm a reasonable man!"

A reasonable man with an unusually high tolerance for heat. A reasonable man who forgot he was stabbed yesterday what with all the lying and violence and pain medication.

The fox reappeared right in front of him, and he took a hurried step back, through a decorated columned archway and onto-- oh. Nothing.

"Aw, fuck," he said upon ungraceful arrival to the ground floor, lying prone atop what had been a pew until recently. "oh, that is blood. Very Catholic, I suppose."

The fox peered into his view from above, perched on the still-standing pew a few feet ahead. "Oh, no! Sir Gawain has been injured. Can I help you? All I want is to aid you, I have told you--"

Gawain scoffed. "I of all people am not gonna fall for that. Fuck off."

The fox hung it's head sadly. "I really think you've misunderstood me. I mean no harm. Here, as a show of good faith, I'll put out the fire. It is a great pity to damage the house of our great and loving God."

It hopped off the bench and vanished.

"That plume of smoke looks a bit like Aphrodite of Knidos," Gawain noticed blankly. Aphrodite of Knidos began to dissipate as he watched, and the intense heat that had been wreathing the church cooled. True to the animal's word, the fire was dying down with unnatural speed. Which meant that people would likely be coming back in to investigate.

As soon as he realized this, there was a tentative shout from outside, inquiring as to whether anyone was present. Gawain swore and stood, absent-mindedly ripped a strip of the altar cloth to press uselessly against his side, before stumbling into the privacy of a confession booth. He'd been in worse situations. Outside the small dark closet, he heard the heavy wooden doors open tentatively.

The voice of the possibly fake bishop rang like church bells across the aisles. He was surprisingly young, for a bishop anyway, and, since Gawain kept track of these things, arguably hot.

"Do you think he could be a dilf? I think he could, if he wasn't in the dumb robes," Gawain would have remarked to Lancelot, if Gawain weren't bleeding out alone in a confessional booth.

Suddenly, one of those states resolved itself. Unfortunately, it wasn't the part about desanguinating. The space for a priest, separated by a screen, became occupied by a shadowy outline.

"You must have a great deal of urgency, to make confession in a church which was so recently on fire," the bishop said with a note of knowing humour in his voice. 

Deciding to play along, Gawain shrugged. "I've done a lot of sin recently. It has been 1486 years since my last confession."

"That's quite a long absence. But It gladdens my heart to see a child of the lord return to the loving arms of God."

"I was busy being dead," Gawain said defensively. "And since I got back I've been busy with a great number of matters. I have like four extracurriculars. Look, I'll just tell you about my sins." He wasn't sure why they were playing out this script, but figured eventually Lancelot would storm in and start hurting people and the situation would be resolved, so it was best to sit still and minimize blood loss till then.

"May God the Father of all mercies help you make a good Confession."

"Alright, in order of chronology, or severity?" Gawain didn't wait for an answer. "I'll do this alphabetically. A for adultery, I've slept with multiple married people. Then would be alcohol-- oh, you know what, I'll organize it by Dante's system. Sins of the leopard--"

* * *

"I recognize that man. The bishop," Guinevere said suddenly, pointing.

Morgan took a bite of a pear and sat back, relaxed. "Oh, yeah? I didn't know you went to church."

Guinevere shot her a look. "Of course not, don't be ridiculous. I mean from last time."

"Well, I've never seen him. And look, I've just won."

Guinevere put her head in her hands, more secondhand embarrassment than despair. "Real classy, Gawain. Look, we'll call it a tie."

* * *

"You know," Gawain said, in a voice that usually got him what he wanted, "The theological intellectual Alcuin of York wrote that--"

"Alright," the bishop interrupted him, having heard far more than he wanted. "We're done here. If this was a test, Gawain, and yes, I know who you are, you utterly failed. And you people continue to have situational face-blindness."

"Well, maybe if you were hotter I'd remember you. Whoever you are," he said spitefully. Somewhere between smoke inhalation, blood loss and painkillers his brain wasn't operating at full capacity, for violence or charm. "Who the fuck are you?"

"That would be Saint Gildas," the fox said. How long had the fox been in the box? Gawain wondered briefly. 

"I don't know who that is."

"You're about to," the fox warned, then slipped into a dark corner and became shadow.

* * *

> Lancelot: so theologically how bad is assaulting multiple priests and burning a church? 
> 
> Lancelot: its okay if its to steal a holy relic right
> 
> Galahad: oh no
> 
> Galahad: okay
> 
> Galahad: actually. ill take the blame for this one. this is my fault.
> 
> Lancelot: also does the name gildas mean anything to you? because hes here
> 
> Galahad: farewell father im destroying my phone and going off the grid to become a hermit actually good luck with the usurpation 

> **Notes for the Chapter:**

> its been a hot sec but we are back :3 ive got like 8 other wips going so updates are a bit sparse until i finish a few of them, but worry not! i totally have a plan and am not just making things up


	21. Gawain Is The Root Cause And Solution To Most Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a big meeting, a fox request, investigative reporting, and a meteorological uh oh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kind of a short one but!! plot is happening! im planning for chapter 30 to be the last chapter but we shall c how that goes lol . as always if u leave a comment id die for you

> Lamorak: okay if gawain and lancelot ruin things for everyone AGAIN i swear to god
> 
> Dinadan: its actually a medical fact that if someone gets called the best knight in the world too many times all of their braincells spontaneously combust
> 
> Agravaine: wait who has mod powers. Kick them out. All of em
> 
> Agravaine: round table 2 the sequel official shit list: lancelot, gawain
> 
> Tristan: tristan
> 
> Dinadan: tristan
> 
> Palamedes: tristan
> 
> Agravaine: right. Galahad. Gareth.
> 
> Gareth: wait what
> 
> Dinadan: sorry kid victim of your own success. @bedivere pull the trigger
> 
> Gawain has been removed from Round Table 2: The Sequel
> 
> Lancelot has been removed from Round Table 2: The Sequel
> 
> Tristan has been removed from Round Table 2: The Sequel
> 
> Galahad has been removed from Round Table 2: The Sequel
> 
> Gareth has been removed from Round Table 2: The Sequel
> 
> Lionel: we’re free…..

* * *

  
  


“Alright,” Arthur said hesitantly. “Why don’t you. Run through that story again but slower?”

Gawain shifted uncomfortably, looked around the empty space they currently resided in as for some distraction, and found none. 

Seeing as this incident presented an intersection between a wide variety of interests, a completely neutral meeting place had been agreed upon. So they were on the brightly lit, eternal jingle playing sixth floor of an empty department store, standing in a dumb circle like idiots.

“Lancelot asked me if I wanted to steal a holy relic,” he started.

The aforementioned winced “Sorry.”

Guinevere put up one finger. “Oh, we’ll get to you. Gawain, continue.”

“So I went to the church and we told them the bishop was arriving and the relic needed to be brought out, and it’s going great, then suddenly it is not, because a bishop actually shows up, and we were both thinking, you know, what the fuck?”

Gildas waved, with a look that would have been smug, except pride was a sin. Ignoring this, Gawain went on. “So I thought of a new plan and lit the building on fire and said we needed to evacuate. Lancelot beats up two priests and steals the relic, and jumps out a window, but before I can follow him--” he slumped and pointed to the orange form perched on atop a display of combo electric juicers and wireless speakers. “That.”

“Your majesty,” the fox said, playing the sycophant, “If I might be permitted to explain my role--”

“No!” Interrupted various attendants, with varying degrees of panic.

“After Gawain,” Arthur promised, to the immediate chagrin of everyone else. “Gawain?”

Gawain glared at the fox. “I saw the fox exacerbating the fire and tried to catch it.”

“We’ve all seen this part,” Morgan broke in. “It was hilarious. But for the sake of time, let's skip to the confession booth.”

“The interests I represent would also like you to skip to the relevant part,” Ragnelle urged, knowing Gawain well enough to tell that this was one of those times where it would really be better for him to talk as little as possible.

He made a face like he’d just thought better of something impolitic. “Right, sure. So I’m bleeding out in a burnt confession booth with the weird fake bishop and the magic fox arsonist appears and tells me the imposter is actually a Catholic saint and-- wow. Sorry, it just hit me at once. This is a weird one even by my standards.”

“Least no one’s been beheaded yet,” Lancelot offered in weak defense. “Right?”

“Yet,” Ragnelle said with some chipperness. 

Gawain laughed awkwardly. “Yeah. Well. At any rate, I was not in a great position. A horrible little animal offered to steal my sword back in exchange for--” he paused here, sheepish at how stupid this particular decision had been. “In exchange for an unnamed future favour.”

There was a chorus of groans. “What are you, twelve? Have you never been on a quest before?” Morgan demanded through peals of laughter.

“Were you bleeding out brain cells?” Ragnelle asked with a smirk somewhere between annoyance and fondness.

“Are you actually Gawain, or are you a lobotomized feral cat transformed to look like him?” Guinevere joined in, need to bully Gawain overriding attempts at professionalism.

“That was very dumb,” Arthur noted, attempting, gracelssly, to join in. Brevity ceased abruptly. 

One vulpine ear twitched from atop the appliances. “I am an honourable creature, and would never ask such a good and noble knight like Sir Gawain to disgrace himself with a request which went against his honour.”

“Shut your whore mouth,” Gawain said. “Anyway, he reappeared with my sword at the same time Gildas said he knew my name and something something sin. But as soon as I had my sword back, I got the sun back, and my side was healed. Then Lancelot broke back into the church, and Gildas called him the devil and threw a fireball at him, and the eclipse started. Then, because eclipse, I passed out, and woke up in this department store.” 

Gawain waited for response and got, for a few beats, only bemused looks.

“Wow.” Morgan said finally. “There's something wrong with you. Like as a person.”

“I am aware.”

Guinevere tapped her clipboard. “If I might attempt to summarize. Ragnelle, you represent arcane preternatural interests whose power Gawain is using through the sun, which since he only paid for one lifetime of that power, he is now technically stealing. Gildas, you represent interests offended at the theft of a holy relic. I represent interests who are upset that Gawain turned the sun off. The fox is…?”

“Renard,” Morgan said with grim wryness.

“I am honoured to be known to you my lady,” the fox said through sharp little teeth. “My interests are those of your majesty and all good people. I try only to help where I can, My lord.”

“Don’t listen to a word he says,” Gawain warned. Like recognized like. 

“If I might make a correction to your list, Lady Guinevere?” Gildas asked, and was granted with a nod. “It is less the theft than the enforcement of mundanity or academy upon that which is not demarcable-- to make holy mystery prosaic. Your anticipated ascension to sovereignty attempts to artificially invoke the divine right of kings with miraculous simulacra generated through the unhallowed,”

“Turgid,” Guinevere muttered to Morgan. 

“Unintelligible,” she whispered back.

Arthur, whose eyes had taken on a glazed over sort of look, nodded hesitantly. Then, an unlikely saviour-- Gawain raised a hand, and Arthur gestured for him to speak.

“You object to Arthur planning his return to power with recreations of the miraculous events which elevated him the first time, and that Galahad is looking for the grail wrong?”

“Yes. Was that not clear?” 

“I think we all got it,” Arthur lied confidently. “Alright everybody, I think that was a really good informational meeting. Same place next week to talk creative and dynamic solutions?”

“Arthur, the sun is gone,” Guinevere said.

“Ah,” he said. “Right.”

Ragnelle took pity on them. “The sun will come back when Gawain pays for the sun. Like an electric bill.”

Arthur sighed reflectively. “It really is Gawain’s world and we’re just living in it.”

“Are they going to ask for my part of the story?” Lancelot said in muted aside. Gawain shrugged, a bit too entrenched in existential level Gawain problems to deal with mortification level Lancelot problems, especially when there were so many of those.

“So how do I pay?” 

Ragnelle looked regretful. “Well, it’d probably have to be something like death.”

“I’m cashing in my favour,” Renard said quickly, before even Gawain could react to this news. Then a yelp of pain as a shelf was lobbed at him.

* * *

> Agravaine: well the sun is gone so i think its safe to say i'm the oldest orkney now
> 
> Gareth: how could you worry about that right now?????? What is wrongwith you???
> 
> Mordred: technically clarissant has been alive for more consecutive years so she might be the oldest
> 
> Agravaine: nope i was born first i win i'm king orkney
> 
> Gaheris: i think that means its your responsibility to put the sun back now
> 
> Agravaine: clarissant is the oldest
> 
> Clarissant: aw thank you ! <3<3 ill try my best  
> 

* * *

  
  


“The latest information coming from our people on the ground,” said Dinadan, who was the people on the ground, “is that we did a bad job and things are bad.”

He shoved the stick he was pretending was a microphone into Palamedes’ face. “As an expert on having a bad time, what do you recommend?”

Palamedes, who knew by now to mostly ignore Dinadan, pointed a flashlight at the half constructed sprawling monstrosity situated across from Buckingham palace, where formerly some important and historical construction had existed. It had been subsumed by the encroaching stone beast, which marched onward night by night towards the long since evacuated palace itself. There was a squadron of guards and an army of onlookers. They were gathered nervously, creeping by superstitious inches up to the stone walls, which had, despite the best attempts of scientists, architects, and when that failed, tanks, had continued to build itself. 

When the sun had gone out in an unplanned eclipse about half an hour previous, a mass of panicked supplicants, connecting one event to another, had fled to the site. Oddly enough, everything appeared to be perfectly normal in parts of Europe and in the rest of the world. Only the territories formerly held by Arthur were experiencing this meteorological unhappiness.

As if to parody Dinadan’s earlier play at newscasting, an actually newscaster emerged from a van to gesticulate wildly at a camera, and the pair were shuffled to the side.

“I still think we could have just asked,” Palamedes said finally. “It may not have worked but I think we should have at least tried.”

“I think we should have killed Gawain,” said Dinadan, who mostly didn’t mean it. When you got past the murder and the fact that he was constantly dragging them into magic bullshit Gawain was mostly fine, and Dinadan was largely against killing people, despite his former profession. “Yuh-oh.” 

Sirens had begun sounding, and the area was being somewhat forcibly cleared. “Well,” Palamedes said, “We tried. We gathered data.”

“This was a bad quest.”

> * * *
> 
> Tristan: why do you guys get to go on a quest and I dont. this isnt fair
> 
> Tristan: i finally finished my isolde song and everyone is busy with the fucking sun. come back and listen to my song.
> 
> * * *

“I just don’t understand what the universe  _ wants _ anymore,”Arthur said aloud to no one in particular. “Pull one magic sword and your whole destiny goes to shit. Rule Logres, die, go to Avalon, come back-- oh, no, now you’re coming back  _ the wrong way. _ I’d like more specific instructions.”

“Alright,” offered Guinevere generously. “Specifically right at this moment the universe wants you to stop talking because we’re dealing with Gawain’s thing right now.” Then she glanced around and swore lightly. “Oh, no. Where’s Lancelot?”

> Galahad: You picked a really great time to not be here by the way
> 
> Bors: were you this mean last time? You seem meaner this time
> 
> Bors: sorry what’s up
> 
> Galahad: sun. gone.
> 
> Bors: good luck
> 
> Galahad: good luck???? Thats it????
> 
> Error-- message delivery-- message blocked
> 
> Galahad: alright when i find the holy grail and solve everything i'm not thanking you in my acceptance speech!


	22. Gawain Has A Plan (And Ruins Everyone Elses)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> magic blood. orkney elections.the high history of the holy rock. a rude mug. not an engagement. other events in between.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! i know this story took a bit of a break but im back in the saddle babey my goal is to finish rt2 (including a few side story epilogues) before christmas at the latest, which is when i started it. oh wow its been almost a year woahhh

Clarissant: Gosh I've never been Orkney Leader before. I'm open to suggestions!!

Agravaine: find someone to blame for all this

Gaheris: then stab them

Agravaine: yes!

Agravaine: well no

Agravaine: we dont do that anymore

Mordred: we could if u werent so lame

Gaheris: booooo

Mordred: gawain let us stab people

Mordred: just saying clare 

* * *

“So, the last known Grail Location,” Galahad gestured towards the ceiling, “is Catholic Heaven. Retracing my steps, that's the last place I saw it.”

“I’m following,” said Mordred, who wasn’t paying attention. Percival, who had tried unsuccessfully to suggest that the current apocalypse might be reason to adjourn the meeting, only sat quietly. According to Galahad, the current crisis was only further proof of the necessity of their efforts. 

Galahad made a grand gesture, almost knocking a triptych altarpiece over onto Percival. “Right. The plan from there is obvious then.”

It wasn’t. Galahad, noting the blank looks, sighed heavily. “We need to artificially create a near death experience-- die long enough to get to heaven and grab the grail, then get, you know, one of those funny oven mitts doctors have, come back.”

“You're gonna die for this cup  _ again?” _

“Oh, I didn’t mean me,” Galahad said, looking at Percival. Then, “I mean, right. Me. Nevermind. Martyrdom--”

He chuckled awkwardly, but was saved from further betrayal by a knock on the door. Dodging the motion activated incendiary device, he walked to the doorway and peered through the door viewer. With a grimace, he opened it.

“Hello, father. For what purpose have you come here,” he asked flatly.

“Um. Your box?” Lancelot gestured vaguely. “The Jesus one? I stole it.”

“Oh! Oh no.”

“Hi Lancelot!” Percival greeted. Mordred flipped him off over his shoulder without getting off the couch.

Somewhat reluctantly, Galahad took the gilded reliquary. He stepped back, dodging the fire, and found a clear space. Lancelot remained in the doorway unclear on the social rules of this situation.

Sometimes he grew very tired of being ordered around. But then, if not that, what was he to do? Make decisions? They were always wrong. Ah, what a miserable dilemma. 

With shocking negligence, Galahad took a heavy looking metal cross off the wall and smashed the reliquary open as if it were a hammer. The collected audience winced as the gilding crumbled into old wood beneath, delicate gem work and carving falling to the untidy floor or caving beneath equally delicately wrought iron. Lancelot reflected unhappily that he mightn’t have gone to all the trouble getting the damn thing if he knew it would just be broken like this. But he didn’t say anything.

The reliquary good and properly cracked open like the world's most expensive walnut, Galahad retrieved the relic itself, with significantly more care in handling it.

A blackened iron spearpoint, chipped and almost mangled from the years, emerged from the wreckage.

“Shitty rock.” Mordred noted. “Congrats.”

Galahad frowned. “It’s not bleeding.”

“Most rocks don’t!”

“It’s not a rock, and it’s supposed to be bleeding,” Galahad insisted.

“I could try,” Lancelot offered. “Making things bleed is sort of my job.”

“Is it?” Mordred asked, leaning over the back of the couch with a questioning glare.

Lancelot shifted nervously. “Well, it was. Now I do um, graphic design on the internet, sort of, freelance-- I could do murder on the side.”

The collected room ignored this, except for Percival, who murmured something like “that’s nice”. Galahad continued glaring at the spearhead, which, obstinately, refused to produce sanguinary ablutions. 

“Fine, I’ll bite,” Mordred said, completely unbaited. “What’s up with the Catholic blood spear?”

Galahad ignored this, setting it gently back down in the pile of gold wrapped rubble. He muttered something about fetching something and disappeared into the shelves, leaving Percival to explain.

Which he set about to, with more cheer than the topic and time likely warranted. Sirens started going off outside the window, and didn’t go off.

“A long time ago, my personal friend Jesus was stabbed by my other friend Longinus,” Percival explained, drawing an arrow on the whiteboard which was likely meant to be a spear. “Then the spear started bleeding profusely with the blood of our most holy lord. My family bought it at a, uh garage sale probably and just sort of had it, till one day this guy named Boron broke into my Great Uncle's house and stabbed him in um, the genitals. And then some Grail Stuff happened.”

“Thank you, Percival,” Lancelot said politely. 

* * *

Gawain: hey. Hey. hey. Are you free to kill people and maybe die? Sounded like something ud be in to. Also where are u

Lancelot: what is happening

Lancelot: i guess i'm free

Lancelot: i miss when i knew what was happening

Gawain: did you ever? 

Lancelot: ….no.

* * *

Galahad returned with several books of varying age and set them down next to the mess, evidently ready to settle into whatever he defined as research. In the silence, Percival rose, looked out the window, winced, and drew the blinds. 

Blessedly, a knock on the door interrupted what could have been hours of apocalyptic quiet and distant sirens. Before anyone could decide whether or not to answer, it flew upon with protesting hinges, sending Lancelot tripping backwards out of the doorway and falling flat on the floor, where he froze to narrowly avoid the fist sized burst of flame which shot across him, singeing his shirt. 

“Hey, Lancelot,” Gawain said politely to his friend on the ground. “Mordred’s friends.”

“What are you doing here?” Galahad questioned, alarmed. “Are you dragging fa-- Lancelot off somewhere? I might still need him to do things. I don’t know how to make this work yet.”

“Make what work?” Gawain asked. He seemed a lot cheerier than current circumstances warranted.

“Magic blood Jesus' spear isn’t bleeding,” Mordred explained. 

“It could be hours.”

Gawain frowned. “I’ve sort of got a tight timeframe here. But look, it’s fine, I’ve read the bible--” he crossed the room, walking around Lancelot and the resulting fire. Before Galahad could do anything but watch in bemused horror, Gawain snatched up the dull spearhead, slashed it across the inside of his arm, tossed it back to Galahad, who fumbled with it in a panic as Gawain swept back out the door, Lancelot in tow. 

“My brother is such a freak,” Mordred noted. “I’m not voting to give leadership back even if he lives.”

“Oh no,” said Galahad. “That’s not right. This isn’t right.”

Red blood, slowly but surely, dripped from the rusted tip. Galahad wiped it away and more flowed forth, making a gruesome mess of his hands and the linoleum on the kitchen floor. 

He glanced frantically to the reliquary which was no longer fit to contain a relic, but before panic could set in, a large mug was presented to him. Gratefully, he dropped the oozing relic into the mug Percival held. 

Galahad started to wash his hands in the sink, then abruptly froze. 

“Percival,” he said icily. “Did you put a hold relic inside of a mug that says-- that says ‘cunt’ on it?”

“The handle is the ‘c’,” Percival said with an innocent smile. “My brother gave it to me.”

“Not killing him is officially worth it,” Mordred announced. Galahad didn’t say anything.

* * *

Tristan: this isnt fair. I wasnt there for camlann either. I miss  _ everything. _

Dinadan: hey buck up! 

Dinadan: anyone can just get out there and cause problems until people pay attention to them!

Dinadan: gawains just really good at it

Palamedes: we could fight if that would make you feel better

Tristan: it wouldnt <3

* * *

“So,” Gawain said, idly pressing one hand to the open cut on his arm. “You’re probably wondering what the plan is.”

“I’ve given up,” Lancelot shrugged. “But you want to explain so go ahead.”

“Thank you,” he continued to walk swiftly in a predetermined direction, trusting that he would be followed. “After you ducked out Guinevere and I launched into negotiations. The sun coming back is a pr opportunity we can use, so we got them to wait 24 hours-- don’t worry about, crops or whatever, Guin’s got it, it’s fine, we don’t have any exports anyway. So I’ve got that time to find my way to an otherworld location. You know how these things go.”

Lancelot nodded to indicate that he did in fact know how magical nonsense tended to progress. 

“At any rate I don’t think you’ll be surprised to know I have some enemies and it’s a confusing place in general, and I was wondering if you would do me the honour of tagging along. You don’t die, you just turn around when we get there.”

“Well I-- of course I’ll come with you. I don’t know how helpful--”

Gawain stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk. It was dark and there were loudspeakers telling them to stay inside, but that was for other people. In the distance, a building was clearly on fire. Ignoring all of this, Gawain reached into a pocket. 

“Eyes closed.”

“Last time you did this it was half of a human head,” Lancelot pointed out.

“Yeah, and it was funny. But yeah, thinking about, this could be misconstrued,” he admitted with a shrug. “Right, here’s your ring. I’ve been cashing in favours.”

He did, in fact, produce the plain silver ring which, at least a baker's dozen of centuries ago, had the power to dispel illusions. “Thought it would come in handy.”

“Oh,” Lancelot said quietly. “I-- thank you.”

“Well don’t thank me yet. Thank me in twenty-four hours, when I’m dead,” he said this very casually. “Come on, we’re due at the dock.”

They continued on.

* * *

Guinevere: I'm still not confident in our decision to unleash Gawain on the world

Kay: he only has twenty four hours itll be fine

Guinevere: I suppose

Guinevere: Hold on Galahad is calling

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3<3 thank u for reading im sorry there was homoeroticism but im keeping the main story gen i Promise


	23. The Events So Far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dinadans story time hour also arthur has some thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a shorter one i just wanted to do a bit of a catch up of whats going on and set up where we're going from here <3 the last like four or so chapters are gonna be super long so this is probably the last like 1500 word one? hopefully

> Agravaine: wonder what he’ll get this time. Maybe a magic shirt or a pony or something
> 
> Bedivere: I assume we’re discussing gawain as usual
> 
> Lamorak: i SAID he was an asshole that causes problems and everyone got mad and stabby and yet 
> 
> Agravaine: yeah well i'm allowed to say that you arent
> 
> Galeschin: if gawain critique is open to relatives of gawain then id like to lodge a complaint
> 
> Lamorak: who the fuck are you
> 
> Agravaine: has galeschin been here this whole time???

* * *

“Alright,” Lynette said, clapping her hands and pointing. “Dinadan, bring us up to speed.”

After their unsuccessful investigation, Dinadan and Palamedes retreated to Tristan’s apartment, where they found Gareth and Lynette had already fled from Gareth's family, who were as usual exhaustingly extant. There were a number of scented candles set up all around the room-- the power had gone out in fits and starts all over the city and, presumably, from Norway to Rome.

Dinadan drummed his fingers sardonically on the coffee table. “Right, one second, I’ll compose a ballad for the lady.”

“I’ll be instrumental back up,” Tristan broke in rushing to fetch an instrument from his Instrument Room. On the floor plan included in the listing, it was labelled “bedroom” but there was already a couch in the living room and he had his priorities. “You can put it in-- ouch, fuck,” there was a clattering. “Iambic tetrameter and trimeter alternating, ABCB.”

“No I very well won’t,” Dinadan said. “If you’re playing you won’t be paying attention.”

“Hear that, Tristan?” Lynette called. “He’s insulting your instrument skills.”

“Oh, here we go,” Palamedes muttered. 

Blessedly, Gareth interceded, and Tristan was summoned back to the main room without any instrument, though his harp was set up in the corner. 

“Isolde doesn’t belong in the instrument room,” Tristan had asserted mildly when asked. No one dared inquire further.

“So, we’ve got three threads-- four really, running consecutively. The first is-- You’re giving me a look.”

Tristan was in fact fixing him with a look. He was going for a mix of threatening, judgemental, and puppy dog, and was ending up somewhere in the realm of seasick. “You can do better than that.”

“In fair East London where we set our scene,” Dinadan opened, shooting a glare at Tristan.

“Parody is cheating,” Lynette broke in. Tristan nodded. Despite themselves, Palamedes and Gareth nodded.

“I think my friends are getting pretty mean.” Dinadan finished the couplet bitterly. “Fine. Take two.”

“Take it away, Dinadan.”

“My thanks, Tristan. Now I begin: Thread one

Lies with the king uncrown’d, his throne not won.

His sister magic works to raise Cam’lot--”

“That was a stretch, but continue.”

“Oh, fuck you Tristan. I hate you a lot.”

When Tristan did nothing but look offended, Dinadan accepted it as leave to continue his improvisatory verse.

“His Queen does rule the imps who build in stone,

Was raised up where the palace once had grown.

But where the fair grey walls do spring, rain down

The bombs-- false queen against true king, this town

A battleground of fairy and mundane.

Another thread to this now does pertain:

Poor Galahad is searching for a cup,

That did before bring him to heaven up.”

“You can do better,” Tristan said scathingly. 

“Yeah come on, that’s pathetic,” said Lynette, who didn’t know what was wrong exactly but was always happy to help mock someone. Dinadan pretended not to hear them.

“And to this end he did enlist his dad,

Whom he always thought to be sort of bad.

He sent the knight a relic for to fetch;

The ethics of this act were quite a stretch--

This reliquary that I've mentioned, see,

Belonged to the old Catholic diocese.

So Lancelot recruited Sir Gawain,

(To no real end as I can ascertain).

Now at the time Gawain was sort of stabbed,

A consequence of deals with gods he'd shagged--”

“That’s a near rhyme,” Tristan pointed out. “That was your one. You aren’t allowed any more.”

“Well, if Emily Dickinson can--” Gareth tried, but there was a collective shaking of heads.

“He’s not Emily Dickinson though, is he babe,” Lynette said gently.

Dinadan launched back into verse with violent emphasis before a discussion could break out. 

“Gawain has powers which grow with the sun, 

The exchange demanded: his life is done.

In reborn life he used power unpaid,

Some old gods summon him for to upbraid.

"And yet he squirrels out with that “hot bod,”

Though lost his magic tether sword to God--”

“Loving the air quotes,” Lynette said.

“They go to church, they set it then on fire,

And in despair Gawain deals with a liar.

The lying Renard is a clever fox

Who sews the seeds of evil when he talks..

Gawain got back the sun, his sword, his health,

But good Saint Gildas comes there all in stealth.

The gods demand Gawain pay with his death.

To back up the threat-- the length and the breadth

Of Arthur’s old estates, Norway to Rome,

The sun is gone away, and we're alone--”

“I said only one slant rhyme, that’s two,” Tristan said.

“Come on, he was almost done,” Palamedes begged. “Just let it go.”

Gareth thought for a moment. “You could rhyme it with, ‘heavenly dome’ or something.”

“Wouldn’t work with the meter. Come on, head in the game, Gareth.”

Dinadan cleared his throat meaningfully and Tristan gestured generously for him to continue.

“So there it stands-- the sun is out, that lout’s

Made sirens fill the streets; they sound with shouts.

The crown besets the seat their king would fill,

We’re worse off now than at damn Badon Hill.”

“We still don’t have the grail,” Gareth pointed out, before realizing his mistake. He quickly counted on his fingers while Tristan and Dinadan waited expectantly. “Uh… And my brothers, l--line break. Want to commit murder… unto others.”

Polite clapping filled the room.

* * *

> Dinadan: hey were holding a “everything is bad” club meeting at tristans come stop him from bullying me
> 
> Lamorak: i'm trapped with the orkneys :(
> 
> Dinadan: why the fuck are you
> 
> Dinadan: you know what
> 
> Dinadan: i dont want to know. Good luck.

* * *

“No, I don’t have a plan-- people keep asking me what my plan is, I don’t have a plan,” Gawain said dismissively, after thanking Vivian for her transportation assistance. He didn’t have a year to wander around this time. “I’m just a very cheerful, well adjusted person.”

“Uh-huh,” Lancelot said skeptically. “You’ve told a lot of lies but that’s maybe the most... lie-y.”

“False?” Gawain suggested as mist drifted around them.

“Yeah, that’s the word.”

They arrived with practiced calm in the other place.

“Which direction?” Lancelot asked, when things had settled into reality as much as they were going to. 

Gawain made a vague gesture at everything. “Direction doesn’t exist. The point is struggle. Any direction we go we’ll encounter a challenge and if we pass we’ll get closer.”

“That’s nice,” Lancelot said mildly. “Simple. Let’s go that way.”

They headed off in the direction he'd indicated, and the mist closed back around them.

> * * *
> 
> Mordred: gawain whats your blood type
> 
> Mordred: someones asking
> 
> Mordred: i know you get cell service in hell
> 
> Mordred: who am i kidding you wouldnt know that. Ill ask guinevere. Thanks for nothing.
> 
> Mordred: if you die can i have your car

* * *

Arthur was sitting on a bench watching the half constructed Camelot go up and down in flames. A meeting was still happening but, if he was being completely honest, he very rarely had a say in things anyway. It had taken forty five minutes for anyone to call asking where he was, and even then it was only to incur he wasn’t “doing anything.” He reassured them that he wasn’t.

One tried not to let it bother them, he reflected, as off a ways a chunk of wall fell and crushed a guard in a fancy hat, before regenerating. Guinevere, Gawain and Kay ran his kingdom because they were better at it than he was. It was really better that way, practically. No, the best way to be a king was to find a person or persons one could trust to do a reasonably good job, and let them make his decisions. Bad things happened when he listened to people he shouldn’t, and mostly good things happened when he listened to people he should. Anything other than that he’d only muck up.

The air was growing cold, even colder thanks to the helicopters above hauling water, which spilled on the ground like artificial rain. The fire was still raging selectively over the half eaten remains of Buckingham palace, as the ancient castle continued to rebuild itself.

Someone else had this all under control. Guinevere probably, or Gawain. As long as he didn’t do anything, it would work out.

In the distance, a tower crumbled.

* * *

> Gaheris: i dont even care about the sun i have a dog now :)
> 
> Owain: …. Thats nice?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY HUGE SHOUTOUT TO REY GAWAIN-IN-GREEN for helping me understand meter im very stupid and they are so smart go read all of their fic its very good thank you rey <3<3<3<3<3


	24. Quests Go Nowhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vivian finds a new profession. guinevere does statistical analysis. gawain and lancelot find a lady in a fountain. galahad is running out of patience and relatives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember how i said every week and then skipped the very next week . *casts a spell * whoosh now u do not

> Lamorak: fuck the orkneys i'm making my OWN sibling group chat
> 
> Tor: hi lamorak. Arent you guys um. Busy over there? The news says the sun is gone 
> 
> Lamorak: its fine the real problem is i'm being excluded
> 
> Tor: well you arent an orkney
> 
> Lamorak: lancelot is in it 
> 
> Tor: huh.
> 
> Tor: aglovale has everyone blocked so is it just us and percy?
> 
> Tor: what about drian
> 
> Lamorak: who?
> 
> Tor: drian
> 
> Lamorak: ?
> 
> Tor: your brother? My half brother?
> 
> Lamorak: you mean lancelots goth friend? He isnt our brother
> 
> Tor: what? No. different drian. Gawain killed him?
> 
> Lamorak: look gawain killed a lot of people ur gonna have to narrow it down
> 
> Percival: hi guys!!! (ﾉ´ヮ`)ﾉ*: ･ﾟ

* * *

After all this was over, however that looked like, the ladies of the lake should unionize. That was what Vivian thought to herself as she saw off Gawain and her son into the otherworld. And by unionize, she meant  _ where the hell is Nimue,  _ by which she meant that everything seemed to be going a bit south. 

But she had raised three children under a lake while on the run from an evil wizard, she reminded herself. It had worked out fine then.

Except it sort of hadn’t.

“No use in any of that,” she said aloud, starting an already confused seagull. With renewed intention, Vivian ran down a mental checklist. Lancelot was off doing quest things, and she certainly couldn’t stop him, so she’d just have to trust in her newly recovered ring and his good sense. Well, she’d have to trust in the ring. 

Lionel was-- she concentrated a moment. Bothering the Orkneys. That was probably fine. Bors was uninvolved and therefore well. Hector was sitting at home, blissfully unaware that anything was even wrong. So, all charges being accounted for, she set off to look after Arthur, and put out any metaphorical fires along the way.

What she found were several literal fires, all over the city. Power outages meant both widespread panic and candles, and the citizenry of London was struggling to operate either of those without property damage. 

Figuring that one could only get so wet, in terms of causing a panic with displays of supernatural impossibility, she spent a few helpful but unproductive hours magically putting them out, to the confused and increasingly awed gratitude of the populace. 

“Er, madam? Your honour?” Asked a woman who's flooded but no longer burning house slumped sadly behind the singed lawn they stood on.

Vivian turned in surprise, mind already on the scent of smoke three blocks away. “Yes?”

“What is happening--? You, you must know,” she asked, with broad gestures to imply she was barely keeping things together. Vivian could sympathize-- what was the word her grandson had taught her? Ah yes. Kin. 

“There will be a brief period of turbulence, which you will be delivered from upon the arrival of your destined ruler who will return the sun,” Vivian said gravely, which she privately thought was laying it on a bit thick, come on, he’s more “disillusioned school counselor” than Christ allegory, but it was what she came up with in the moment. 

One can’t help spur of the moment prophecies, she decided, bidding the woman goodbye. 

* * *

> Galahad: This isn't working. Why isn’t it working. I should have gotten a shield and sword from god. I asked very clearly and politely
> 
> Galahad: plus, theres a huge crowd outside because mordred started the generator and is playing loud music.
> 
> Galahad: i didn’t even know we had a generator
> 
> Galahad: and gawain broke the jesus spear with his concupiscent heathen blood. Why are you even friends with him. Why is my dad friends with him. Do people like gawain more than me
> 
> Hector: …
> 
> Hector: people dont usually text me
> 
> Galahad: i'm running out of relatives alright

* * *

Morgan didn’t know how exactly spontaneously generating folders, binders and graphs fell under the purview of human-queen-turned-spring-goddess, but Guinevere certainly thought it did. 

They had gone tragically off script only twelve steps into her fifty-six step reconquer Britain plan. Next time around, Morgan thought, she’d kidnap all the knights and keep them in her basement till things were properly arranged. It had worked on Lancelot.

“Now,” Guinevere said with straining patience, “this graph shows trend in belief and traditional practices regarding your sponsors,” she smirked meanly in the vague direction of Ragnelle. “Note how it is trending very decidedly down.”

“Fundamentally does the immortal soul seek its own salvation, in resistance to the urges of the mind, body and senses. Just so does commonality renounce servitude to malevolent entities and embrace sanctification,” Gildas said. 

“Ah!” Guinevere cried triumphantly. “Wait till you see your graph before you say that, your holiness.” She summoned another large, professionally printed visual aid. “Note, similarly, a downward trend, which is furthermore decreasing at an increasing rate. Neither of your interests holds the sway it once did, and frankly, you need us more than we need you.”

“You only have the power and influence you have because of us,” Ragnelle pointed out adroitly. 

Guinevere didn’t let it affect her. She couldn’t be bothered with something as silly as a fair point. 

“Hey, I have no part with either of you,” Morgan broke in, in support of herself more than Guinevere or Arthur. 

“We weren’t discussing you.”

“You know, it’s sort of funny, all three of you standing around arguing for the sake of other people-- entities,” Morgan began, leaning casually against a pyramid of remote control trucks.

“Next time, God and <̴̡̢̪̰̩̙̻̺̈́̓͛͗͊̈́̃͒͘.̶̡̥̰̫̯̹̻̖̹̜̖͚̹̄ͅ,̸̢̱͓̪̯̩̤̫̑̓͒̆̀̅̆̈̒æ̷͈̥̻͓̙̺̂͑̑̓̉̕̚͘͠´̶̢̝̪͔͙͓̋̓̔̃̍̃̈́͊͗̚̚͝͝-̴̢̧̧̢͈̪̲̩͍͕̳͓̈́̅̾́͗̌̅̃̄̅̓̔̇̇þ̴̧̢̨̼͙͉̯̟̰̬̟̤̥̂̇´̸̤̗̝̟̫̤͍̟̱̳̺̝̐́'̶̧̢̻̗̰͖͇̘̣̥̇͊̇̓̀̄̂̉̓͂̓̕͠͝"̴̨̙̻́̉̽̓̓́ can just come here and argue themselves, if they really care about what Arthur and his coterie are up to.”

“This isn’t an argument,” Guinevere lied. “It’s a friendly meeting between interested parties. It’s called diplomacy, Morgan.”

“Oh, I remember  _ diplomacy _ \--”

Guinevere grimaced. “Don’t say it like that, actually.”

“We can leave and come back if you--”

Guinevere held up one finger at Gildas without turning away from Morgan. He felt swiftly silent.

“Speak your piece if you have a quarrel, Morgan. I’m trying to negotiate my ex-husband’s rise to kingship and I really-”

“Aw I didn’t know you two got divorced,” Ragnelle said. “That’s nice, I’m happy for you.”

“...Thank you.”

“Look,” Morgan spread her hands placating, somewhat at odds with her sardonic expression. “This isn’t what I would have done, sure, but you seem to have an awful lot of… planners. So go ahead. Negotiate away.”

“I will.”

“Okay.”

“Great.” Guinevere turned back to her graphs, trying to remember her point.

“You were discussing the failures of faith in a modern age,” Gildas said helpfully.

“Right,” she took a deep breath. “To continue…”

* * *

> Galahad: this quest is not going well. I still haven’t left my apartment. 
> 
> Hector: hm. 
> 
> Galahad: any sage advice??
> 
> Hector: uh. Once i went on a long and difficult quest to find my brother. at times it felt hopeless.
> 
> Galahad: and then the light of god appeared and you persevered to victory?
> 
> Hector: well eventually i found out he’d been dead the whole time :/
> 
> Galahad: oh.

* * *

  
  


“Walking blows,” Gawain announced after about an hour. “I miss my horse.”

“I don’t,” Lancelot said firmly. He tried not to hold grudges about people attempting to kill him. He wouldn’t have any friends if he did. Still, the consistent and vehement bloodlust Gringolet had directed at him was off putting to say the least, and he couldn't summon much sympathy.

“He was a magical horse,” Gawain pointed out, which meant the horse shaped thing was a creature from hell with a kill count equal to most knights. “Maybe he’s still--”

“I don’t think so,” Lancelot decided, swiftly cutting off that line of thought before it could evolve into an inevitable sub-quest. Gawain looked unconvinced, but they continued across the ever changing perpetuity. As they went, dark shapes resolved themselves out of the mist, but failed to materialize as things that could be killed, which meant they were watching only and must be ignored. 

Until one refused to shift back into haziness, and obstinately became a fountain.

“Oh, here we go,” Gawain noted, unworried. 

Lancelot peered at the quickly sharpening image “There’s a woman in the fountain.”

“Yeah, they do that.” Gawain brushed him off, sauntering over to the fountain. “Greetings, noble maiden. I notice you have been placed in a fountain, likely by a cruel former suitor, for refusing to praise his prowess above a certain other knight. I hereby offer my service to fight him and free you.”

“That’s not why I’m here, actually,” she said pointedly.

Gawain blinked. “Oh-- oh. Okay. Why are you here?”

“That’s my own business,” she said, crossing her arms in a huff. 

“Well-- can we help you with anything?” Gawain asked, opening negotiations as Lancelot began to walk around the fountain, as if examining it from all angles would reveal something useful.

“Yes.”

Gawain stared at her. She stared back. “And what would that be, then?”

“Oh, I’m so glad you asked,” she exclaimed, settling in with her arms crossed on the waist high edge of the fountain she was lounging in. “Well, I was just a simple wealthy and beautiful maiden, sitting in my garden singing beautifully and watching the flowers bow down to me, when,”

Lancelot was gesturing pointedly at her as she monologued, and Gawain cast a quizzical glace at Lancelot over her shoulder.

“...like apples, and your hands so white like doves,’ and I said ‘thank you ominous stranger, why don’t you…”

Lancelot frowned and made hand motions which clearly intended to convey  _ something _ . 

“What?” Gawain mouthed silently.

“Sir-- are you even paying attention?” The maiden asked. He reassured her he was, deciding if Lancelot wanted to wave his arms around it was none of his business.

“Right. I was getting to the relevant part. I need you to promise to kill my captor, no matter who he may be. I will only give you the name after you promise to--”

Giving up on charades, Lancelot sighed and pointed at the lady in the water. “Fox tail.”

She stopped abruptly as Gawain leaned forward a bit to ascertain that she did, in fact, have one. Stony silence descended as abruptly as a rain of anvils, before just as rapidly exploding into motion-- rude exclamations, panicked explanations, splashing and struggling, till a fox hung over the water with an expression of chagrin, his tail a tether held by Gawain.

“He bit me,” Lancelot remarked to no one, studying his bleeding hand with a frown. “I’m gonna have to get a rabies shot,  _ again _ .”

“Rabies isn’t endemic to the United Kingdom,” Renard offered, trying to be helpful.

“Then what were all those shots for?” 

Lancelot’s question went unanswered.

“What the fuck are you doing here,” Gawain demanded, giving the animal a shake.

“You owe me two favours!”

“Yeah,” he smirked bitterly, “And I promised to give you whatever you ask, tomorrow.” 

“That wasn’t part of the deal,” Renard needled. “It’s nothing bad! I only wish to help you sir, and be a productive member of-- ow! Sir, stop shaking me!”

“What was the goal with the fountain scam,” Gawain asked, abating a moment.

Renard looked from Gawain to Lancelot and found no merciful expression. Still upside down, he whined. “I thought I might… have you promise your death to me, so I could earn a third favour by returning it to you.”

“Can’t anyway trade in currency that  _ isn’t _ the right to kill me?” Gawain wondered aloud. He squared his shoulders and tried not to worry about it, turning back to the vulpine trickster wriggling helplessly. “You’ll have to be content with two. How’s this-- I’ll grant one of them now, if you promise it won’t stop me from arriving in a timely fashion for my appointment in--” he reached his free hand into his pocket and checked his phone. “Eighteen hours.”

“Oh, sir, your generosity is boundless,” Renard said, his fawning sounding increasingly sarcastic. “I ask for the right to be your senechal or squire, whatever is most applicable in the moment.”

“Why the hell would you want that?” Lancelot said into Gawian’s startled silence.

“Hey!” Both Gawain and fox protested at once. Then, Gawain glared at him. “I’m not a king, and require no senechal. And I am not currently in the market for a squire without opposable thumbs.”

“I can have thumbs if you want,” Renard reassured him. “And other accoutrements, too--”

“Ew.” Gawain grimaced. “Don’t-- ugh,”

Taking advantage of his horrified distraction, Renard twisted up to nip his fingers, making him let go on instinct with a curse. An orange-red blur skittered through the shallow water and dove, dripping and shaking, into the long grass, peeking out over a clump of stunted shrubbery. 

“Knights don’t hurt their squires,” he said. “Just so you know.”

“Knights can hurt other knights' squires,” Lancelot pointed out, not making any movements in that direction. “I mean, theoretically.”

Renard’s yellow eyes widened. “You can’t do that, it’s against the rules of honour. Sir, he can’t do that.” 

Gawain smirked. “I could stop him from doing that, as a favour.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

Renard considered this as Gawain checked his phone again. They still hadn’t encountered any actual trials, and there would probably be three of them. He needed to move this along.

“Alright, fox, here’s my offer. One favour to make you my squire, the second I tell Lancelot not to hurt you.”

“And any of your other friends, too,” Renard urged.

“Fine, them too. Agreed?”

“Yes, sir,” Renard pronounced gravely, slinking out of the bushes to lurk at Gawain’s left side, farthest from Lancelot. 

Rolling his eyes, Gawain nodded at the distant horizon. “Let’s go then.”

They set off.

“Hey, what exactly was this gesture meant to convey,” Gawain asked a few minutes into the resumption of their quest,making a rough imitation of Lancelot, who flushed and looked at the ground.

“Uh… fox ears.”

Both Renard and Gawain gave him a bemused look. “How?”

“I don’t-- look--” he shrugged helplessly. “I tried.”

“Hm.”

The mist closed around the fountain behind them, and it faded away.

* * *

> Mordred: gawainnnnnnn
> 
> Mordred: please i'm so bored galahads just crying and its dull
> 
> Mordred: hey hey lamorak is at ur apartment
> 
> Mordred: dont you want to
> 
> Mordred: go insane about it
> 
> Mordred: i'm gonna get percy to text you and if you answer him and not me i'm really gonna kill you in your sleep
> 
> Mordred: oh nvm theres been a development
> 
> Mordred: thanks for nothing whore


	25. Everything Is Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> arthur makes some progress! oh no! guinevere continues to have a meeting. the fox quietly makes his play. all signs point toward "stalled at the edge of disaster"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and this weeks Excuse Of The Week is.... *drumroll *
> 
> *i drop the drum and have to pick it up. i awkwardly clear my throat and do more drumroll*
> 
> i had a headache for like a week so i didnt have time last weekend but! here is chapter 25. the next chapter is uhmm a big one so that will. probably also not b next week grthyfjuygu theyre all big ones after this one i think tho

> Percival: Hewwo? Gwoup chat? Where is evewybody?
> 
> Agravaine: mordred give percival his phone back.
> 
> Percival: hes busy with catholic stuff. What are you guys up to?
> 
> Bedivere: not much??? The sun is gone
> 
> Percival: gawainll be back sometime tomorrow. Its just bonus nighttime lol chill. 
> 
> Percival: lmaooooo someone just got stabbed outside. Its literally just like nighttime guys
> 
> Bedivere: in retrospect we really should have seen ur whole thing coming huh
> 
> Percival: i mean i'm not subtle, no

* * *

“I don’t mean to be harsh,” said Agravaine, who was about to say something harsh, “but Gaheris is bringing nothing to this party, team-comp wise.”

“Oh yeah? What are you contributing?” Gaheris demanded, clutching a character sheet defensively.

“He’s literally the cleric,” Lamorak pointed out, then flinched slightly when they both turned to glare at him. 

“None of you have practical builds alright, let's not fight,” Lionel urged halfheartedly. He didn’t actually mind people fighting but felt he had some duty to make an attempt. Attempt made, he leaned back to leaf through a guidebook and watch them fight in the flickering lights of various candles and camping lanterns.

There was the general consensus that they should probably be doing something, but also other, more competent people were already doing things somewhere else and it would be easier just to sit and wait.

Besides, Agravaine personally reasoned that him trying to help had actually led directly to his entire family dying and the fall of Camelot, and it was definitely best for everyone if he minded his own business. 

“This is just like fuck up club,” Gaheris noted, as they watched Lionel carefully arrange items on a map. 

“What’s fuck up club?” Lamorak asked.

“One time Arthur made a team of fuck ups and had us arrest Kay,” Lionel explained. “It was Gaheris, Aglovale, and I.”

Agravaine frowned. “Why wasn’t I invited?” There was a silent pause, and he slumped lower in his chair. “Are you saying I was too much of a fuck up for fuck up club?”

“Maybe you were too successful,” suggested Lamorak, who had been too successful.

“You forgot Hector,” Gaheris said.

“Everyone forgets Hector. That's why Hector was in the club.”

“See, Agravaine,” Lamorak said, in a tone which indicated he’d weighed whether to say ‘Aggs’ and decided he would be attacked if he did. “Maybe you were too memorable.”

“Did someone say my name?” Hector asked mildly, wandering out of the kitchen with a box of plain crackers. 

Lionel blinked. “I-- I forgot you were here.”

Hector shrugged. “It happens.”

Finally taking mercy on Lionel, they all settled around the table in a semblance of agreement, prepared to argue and backstab their way through the game. 

* * *

> Daniel: I feel like all the useless second sons are hanging out together without me
> 
> Dinadan: …uh huh
> 
> Daniel: yeah. I'm sure of it!!
> 
> Dinadan: i dont think they know who you are buddy. They barely know who brunor is. Theyre knights, they arent bright.
> 
> Daniel: why are the orkneys so much better at branding than us then???

* * *

An hour past found Arthur still sitting on the bench. The castle continued to make progress-- it was almost finished now-- and the official looking people had been forced to reallocate resources into putting out the fires their own weapons had lit. There was smoke in the air still, as he watched them cordon off the area, leave barely a dozen uniformed figures behind on the land they were close to ceeding. 

Sirens continued to blare unpleasantly. _When I am king,_ Arthur thought, as he did on a highly theoretical basis, _I’ll make them change the noise to something more pleasant._ He had these thoughts frequently, and never wrote them down.

He stood to take a walk, not for any indication of grand purpose but because his foot was falling asleep. None of the guards seemed to notice him duck under the cordon and make his unhurried way about the massive structure. No alarms went off when he ran his hand over the stone, warm from the fire but undamaged.

The gates creaked open when he knocked, no human porter asked his name. This was especially odd-- In Arthur’s experience, you couldn't ask entrance to a storage closet without an officious porter appearing from nothing to argue with you about it.

Nevertheless, they opened, as if well oiled and maintained, and he wandered into the sunny courtyard.

* * *

> Kay: hey wheres arthur
> 
> Bedivere: isnt he with guinevere?
> 
> Kay: morgan says he left
> 
> Bedivere: huh. Hes probably feeding the ducks or something, we can round him up once everything is settled. 
> 
> Kay: he probably went home and is just sitting there silently in the dark
> 
> Bedivere: ...huh

* * *

“Sir?” Renard asked, in his best ‘I am a normal fox look how polite I am’ voice. “Firstly may I say it is an honour to serve you,” he went on, ignoring a disgruntled groan. “Secondly, I would like to inquire as to whether I have any vacation time, in my position as squire?”

Gawain didn’t spare him a glance, peering accusingly into the mist. “Yeah, sure. Just ask in advance, I suppose.”

“I would like to request a leave of absence beginning immediately and of an unknown duration.”

Gawain shot him a suspicious look. After a moment of consideration, desire to see the animal gone outweighed certainty he was up to something. “Granted. Please leave.”

“Your generosity is boundless sir,” the fox cried meaninglessly, arting off into the bushes.

“Right, great,” Gawain muttered, immediately dismissing this. “I’ll be honest, getting a little tired of walking to no end,” _Not even my own._

“So you’ve said.” Lancelot should have been more unhappy considering everything, but the fox was gone, so things were looking up really. 

Gawain gestured onwards. “Well. Shall we wander onwards in slightly more companionable silence?”

He might have countered by pointing out they did not, technically speaking, _have_ to be silent, but Lancelot would never suggest unneeded conversation, so he just nodded agreeably.

“Having any luck discerning illusion from reality or somesuch?” Gawain asked sarcastically as he walked into the mist.

“OH.” 

He stopped. “Oh?”

Lancelot shifted uncomfortably. “It’s in my pocket.”

They stood in suddenly quite uncompanionable silence. 

Taking a deep breath, Gawain checked his phone. “That’s fine, it’s fine we only wasted seven hours, we still have nineteen hours left. That’s plenty.”

Lancelot frowned, doing some mental subtraction, and decided to let it go. “Right. Sorry.” He put on the ring. In his defense, things were very confusing here, made the mind a little funny, raw and exposed. 

“Alright, now we’re going somewhere,” Gawain announced, hoping the act of announcing this would make it true. “What are we discerning?”

Lancelot looked around. “Same as before.”

Frowning Gawain grabbed his wrist and turned it over, glaring at the ring. “What are you, trying to accomplish with that,” Lancelot asked awkwardly.

“Not sure. Honestly, feel a little drunk. Can mist make you drunk? No, right?” Gawain dropped his wrist obligingly.

“No,” Lancelot decided. He thought for a moment. It seemed a fair bit easier than it had a minute before. “Oh! Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Uhm,” he faltered under the intensity of unadulterated Gawain Observation. “My head seems clearer than before I put on the ring.”

“Interesting.”

“Do you--” Lancelot gestured. “Want to have… the ring back?”

“Naw. I’ve given my best performances drunk historically. Of the two of us, and I mean no offense by this, I’d much rather you stay, you know, abreast of things.”

This was a very polite and considerate way of saying sometimes he snapped and killed a bunch of people, and Lancelot appreciated the impulse behind the delicacy. “That’s fair.”

Gawain shrugged and blew out a breath, taking out his phone. “Look, I’m gonna try GPS.”

“Uhm.” a little alarmed, Lancelot surveyed him. “How-- what exactly are you--”

“Hey, it might work,” Gawain argued defensively. “We do have cell service.”

“I suppose--”

“And why the fuck do we have pristine cell service,” Gawain demanded. “I don’t have four bars in my goddamn seminar.” He blinked then kicked the ground again. “Fuck, I’m supposed to TA a gov class right now. All those sophomores are going to fail the Hobbes and Locke quiz because I got beheaded in the shadow realm. Fuck.”

“Probably classes were cancelled,” Lancelot pointed out helpfully. “Since, the sun and all.”

Gawain frowned miserably. “Right, great. Everything is fine then. Stupendous.”

“Right.”

They looked out on the landscape, feeling increasingly not stupendous. 

* * *

> Gawain: hey everything is bad :(((
> 
> Gawain: Guinevereeeee oh my god. What the fuck
> 
> Gawain: you arent allowed to have better things to do than listen to me complain
> 
> Gawain: really sad how some people get handed spring goddess and are suddenly too good for their old friends i see how it is
> 
> Gawain: imagine if paying for anything else was like this. Like you go to tesco and their like okay heres your pack of gum. To pay 1.25 for it, meet me outside at town at noon. No. 
> 
> Gawain: is this how mordred feels

* * *

The meeting was stalled in that particular way that happened sometimes, where all involved parties had made their cases and had all separately decided not to budge, so negotiations went nowhere but small concentric circles.

Ragnelle had made it clear that the payment must be made and she could do no negotiations on Gawain's part, and furthermore the dramatic revelations being unveiled to the citizenry of the United Kingdom was unapproved, and if Arthur wanted to be not destroyed he needed to cede power to dark forces ASAP.

Gildas had made it very clear that the attempts at cheating their way into divine right were in fact fraudulent and offensive and the collusion with dark powers even worse, and if Arthur wanted to not be destroyed he needed to find Christ and renounce dark forces ASAP.

Guinevere had made it very clear that she neither wished to be destroyed, nor was amenable to either offers. 

Morgan was not helping. 

“What if you agree to both of ‘em, on condition they defend you from the light of god, evil, vice versa,” she proposed, leaning back on a mountain of products and taking a sip of iced coffee she’d summoned from somewhere. “Let them destroy each other.”

She liked to make inflammatory statements like that from time to time. 

“If I might be excused for two minutes to confer with my colleague?” Guinevere asked coolly, closing a binder with a tab open to her notes.

Morgan blew a kiss over her shoulder as they walked a dozen yards off.

“Would you like to justify your intentional aggravation of tensions, Morgan?” Guinevere inquired tightly. She was a terribly, violently patient person, but it had been quite a long week.

“Ah, am I getting in the way of your flawless plan?” She blinked innocently. “It was going so well.”

“Mhm. So that’s your complaint. What’s your suggestion?”

Morgan frowned. “Hm?”

“You object to my handling of things. You’re right, things are less than ideal. So pitch your alternative, I’m listening.”

Morgan looked suspicious, and ran a hand through her cropped black hair. “It’s a little late for my plan. It hasn’t been on the straight and narrow since your arrival, my friend.”

It would have been correct to point out that Morgan was, in fact, the one to bring her here. But being diplomatic was more important than being correct. “I know. As I said, things have gone quite awry. But I could use your foresight and advice moving forward.” Flattery never hurt. It didn’t seem to hit the mark though.

With a smirk, Morgan inclined her chin back at their two inquisitors. “I think I’d prefer you continue on your own vim and vigour. All this is shaping up. It’s a very good thing I brought you here after all.” 

Guinevere stilled for only a moment to consider these words and every implication, running lightning iterations. She kept her sudden paradigm shift to herself, affixing irritated confusion. “Whatever you’ve irritated yourself about, keep it to yourself. I don’t need your witty remarks.”

Conversation over, she turned and strode back to the other two. Her movements were perfect and mechanical, and her mind was running tests and generating hypotheses at high speeds.

* * *

> Bedivere: Okay let's do a check in. Where is everyone
> 
> Morholt: the store
> 
> Bedivere: The. Why are you at the store. There's a lot going on right now
> 
> Morholt: out of ice
> 
> Bedivere: … okay. Anyone else
> 
> Mordred: its a secret
> 
> Lamorak: gawains house
> 
> Bedivere: I should have. I should have known not to ask. That's on me. I'm sorry everyone. I apologize.
> 
> Mordred: u arent forgiven. I sentence you to burn at the stake
> 
> Percival: seconded. The motion passes! Now to order all of someones brothers to guard it. This will end well and no one will die!!
> 
> Bedivere: Okay that was NOT my fault

* * *

Arthur felt suddenly old with the bitter humour of someone hearing the current slang from a youth, or experiencing the temporal displacement of realizing people younger than oneself are more accomplished. But he wasn’t a terribly contemplative man at the best of times, so he shrugged and proceeded over the cobblestones which were never so unworn in his memory.

The light streaming down was golden, pleasant, a chill November morning warming reluctantly as the birds began to warble and, distantly, tents were set up, men calling and horses being led across the field, which had been green and lovely yesterday when they arrived but would soon be torn and muddy.

If Arthur noticed any incongruities, he didn’t mind them. He had gotten very good at not minding things like magical occurrence, adultery, his nephew seizing political power, and, more recently, paying taxes. 

This wasn’t the same courtyard, but it could have been. Subconsciously, he realized then, he had designed the front courtyard after the one at Londinium. 

The sword was right where it should be, of course, situated picturesquely under a beam of light, sheathed in an anvil and glimmering unnaturally. 

He heard voices, hushed and distant, as he stepped forward. Whether a crowd had gathered or these were half-remembered specters, he did not turn to ascertain. 

The hilt welcomed the familiar embrace of his hand, fingers curling with practiced exactness around the warm metal. After an unworried moment of perfect calm, he pulled up with a gentle tug.

The sword didn’t budge. With an anxious chuckle, Arthur tried again, more insistently, to no avail. Hoping for the veracity of folkloric consistency in triads, he put both hands on the hilt and gave a forceful pull.

The sword remained in the stone.

* * *

> Gawain: hi sorry i ignored your texts how is christianity going
> 
> Mordred: your blood is all over the apartment
> 
> Gawain: it happens more than you’d think.
> 
> Gawain: hows percival
> 
> Mordred: wow you really do like him more than me. Typical. You totally wish he was ur little brother not me huh
> 
> Gawain: what
> 
> Mordred: unbelievable
> 
> Mordred: i'm just kidding lol idgaf. Hes fine. 
> 
> Mordred: everything is fine


	26. Everything Is Not Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in fact it is all quite bad!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI YES IM BACK sorry about the. months off school god crazy and depression..... fades into chilling silence.
> 
> ANYWAY yeah hi here is chapter 26 please enjoy it i promise i wont do it again but if i do please dont be mad lol.

> Dinadan: hi everyone do you believe in nominative determinism
> 
> Lionel: no i'm catholic
> 
> Dinadan: right. Keep saying that maybe u wont be set on fire again. 
> 
> Lynette: he means tristan. Hes crying.
> 
> Lionel: lame.
> 
> Lionel: okay ive googled it the answer is no. yvain got a lion and i didnt
> 
> Dinadan: interesting, one for two. Any other examples
> 
> Yvain: gawains more like a cat than a hawk. One for three
> 
> Lionel: catboy…..
> 
> Kay: ive banned that word. Stop. you will be blocked
> 
> Lynette: gawain is a catboy
> 
> Lynette has been removed from Round Table 2: The Sequel

* * *

  
  


“This sucks,” Gawain announced aloud. He announced this about every five minutes.

“Uh huh,” said Lancelot. He responded with this about every five minutes. “Sure is.”

“It was supposed to be different,” Gawain said. He said this about one in three times. “At the very least someone should have given us food and alcohol by now.” This was a new complaint. 

“Hm,” Lancelot mumbled with saintly patience for a man who, a few weeks ago, was a basically normal freelance graphic design artist from Manchester. It really was a lot to deal with so suddenly. Besides, a thought was stumbling around somewhere in the back of his brain, and he was letting it take its time developing in case it was a good one. “Any luck with GPS?”

Gawain looked confused. “What? Lancelot, how do you propose I would use GPS for this. What would I put as the address? Pagan beheading place?”

“Your phone died before you could?” He guessed.

“My phone died, yeah.”

Seemingly at random, Gawain stopped, pivoted about 40 degrees on his left heel, and set off in this new direction, charging into the ever shifting mist which parted before him. They kept wandering aimlessly for a bit while Lancelot pondered.

“I think,” he said finally, “It’s sort of odd-- or at least I don’t understand-- why you’re trying to, to follow the rules and such you did last time. Seeing as, it didn’t work out in the end.”

Gawain stopped abruptly as he did, with mechanical violence. “Ah. Well. I suppose that-- well I suppose you make a compelling point there. Well yes, I suppose it is pointless, what I’m doing right now. Is pointless action better than pointless inaction?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry I said anything,” Lancelot said as it became clear Gawain wasn’t taking the point well.

“No it’s excellent. Incredible, I--” distractedly, he ran a hand through his hair, and was confused when it came away bloody. “Fuck, I don’t even remember when-- why my hand is bloody. Good. Good Sign. So I suppose I’ll wait here then, and the deal will fall through, and I’ll have the honour of destroying everything twice. So it’s all-- coming to nothing. Arthur, reincarnation, our whole-- coterie!” Saying this, he threw himself down onto the grass, frowning.

Lancelot shrugged helplessly and settled cross legged next to him. “Maybe.” 

“Are you not emotionally devastated?” Gawain demanded, half joking half delirious.

“Well I-- I'll confess that I’m sort of new to this,” Lancelot admitted. “The whole reincarnation thing’s a recent development for me, remember?”

Gawain considered this, then nodded. “I suppose that makes sense. I mean, I’ve spent my entire life since I was fifteen preparing for right now, except the month I spent trying to design rollerblades for horses.”

Lancelot frowned in contemplation. A frown was his standard expression, and could express nearly any emotion. Right now it was mostly bemused concern and a dash of morbid curiosity. “How did that go?”

“Oh, I’m fully banned from the country club,” Gawain admitted without any apparent guilt or shame. For a long moment, there was a melancholy silence. It was almost peaceful.

“Also, while we are confessing things,” Gawain began unpromisingly.

“Uh oh.”

“I have hooked up with, like, most of your family.”

Lancelot blinked. “Uhm. Who-- no wait--” before he could explain that he did not want any clarifying details actually, Gawain went on. 

“Lionel and Hector and,  _ a  _ milf-y French nun but that could have been anyone's mom--”

“I think you’ve confessed enough now,” Lancelot managed, sounding a little strangled.

“Lots of people are named Elaine.”

Uhm,” Lancelot started, staring blankly ahead. “I know you say this uh, secure in thinking I won’t hurt you about it, and, and you are right. But I do want it known I didn’t enjoy this conversation. And if the roles were reversed, you would be, uh, attacking me with a rock right now.” 

“Probably, yeah. I guess I was very into revenge for a while there. I plead temporary insanity. Sorry.”

Lancelot shrugged. He wasn’t usually upset in an outward direction and the sensation was quickly fading into glum regret. “Considering the times and circumstances-- you were raised in it, right.”

“Even chimpanzees take revenge,” Gawain said distastefully.

“Is that true?”

“Yeah I read a study in a magazine at the doctors office.”

“Huh. Neat.” Lancelot's brain wandered back to things said earlier. “Wait.”

Gawain scowled, tearing up the grass under his restless fingers. “I’ve nothing else to do.” 

“I just wanted to say,” Lancelot began carefully, “That I don’t think it was your fault. Last time. You said-- well it wasn’t.”

For a beat, there was silence, but for the lapping of water at a distant shore. Then Gawain chuckled sort of awkwardly. “Thanks. Sorry I got you trapped here.”

“That’s okay. Payback for when I got you trapped in Rigomer.” Oh, what they might give to be back in Rigomer now.

“I suppose eventually, your mother will wonder where you are and come fetch you. Depending on if civilization is destroyed or what have you.”

Lancelot shook his head. “I don’t think she can find us here so far away from where we started.”

“Maybe they could get a uh, what’s it called, magical-- ping or whatever off of me, but not without the sun. Oh, well then,” Gawain said with bitter cheer, patting the soft grass beside him. “Lie down and wait for death with me. We can play I spy. I spy an endless shifting mass of grey.”

“Mist,” said Lancelot, lying down on the grass.

“Right! Your turn.”

“It’s sort of wet--”

“Mist.”

“This is a bad game.”

> * * *
> 
> Gawain: hi guys
> 
> Gawain: just realized i forgot to say goodbye before i left whoops haha
> 
> Gawain: so. Bye. love u guys
> 
> Agravaine: what the fuck
> 
> Gawain: (･ω<)☆
> 
> Gaheris: ?????? 
> 
> Gawain: i felt we were getting kinda earnest idk thought the emoji would help
> 
> Agravaine: and you just chose one at random??
> 
> Gawain: yes
> 
> Mordred: bye gawain! bye! bye! Lets kick him from the gc
> 
> Gawain: :((( my phone is dying those are gonna be ur last words to me

* * *

It won’t surprise anyone to know that Guinevere’s meeting was already going very, very poorly when Morgan disappeared. She’d been calling out the time every few minutes, counting down the time until Gawain was scheduled to pay his fine, and reporting on the state of things outside as they deteriorated. 

Which was alarming, and somewhat hampering negotiations-- nothing engenders diplomacy less than periodic reminders that half the continent was in a state of active disaster. But it was with a creeping sort of dread that Guinevere realized Morgan was gone, had been for at least several minutes when she noticed her absent from the corners of her vision.

“I’ve been instructed not to accept any deal which fails to account for the powers you have already accessed and payment for them,” Ragnelle reported, looking almost as ragged as Guinevere felt. 

“And I am sadly unable to accept a deal which stipulates non-Christian theocratic influence over a supposed Arthurian rule,” Gildas frowned. “I can see no way to move forward that does not mean violent conflict.”

“No,” Guinevere said quickly, “No that won’t be necessary. In fact, I believe I’ve thought of a solution you’ll both find equitable.”

“Oh?” Said Ragnelle finally, after a long moment of silence from Guinevere.

She nodded. “Yes. Yes I definitely have. And I’ll tell you what it is,” wheels frantically spun, “Right now. The plan is--” 

And she drew her phone from her pocket quickly, stepping back. “Hold on I have to take this call. Then I’ll tell you. I’ll be right back. Real call.”

“It’s not ringing,” Ragnelle said, but Guinevere brushed her off with a somewhat convincing series of facial expressions.

“Yup! Hello-- sir,” Guinevere said into the phone, retreating to a place she could stall. It felt like they were running out of time and yet trapped in an eternal moment. Gears clicked and ticked and ground into nothing.

> * * *
> 
> Clarissant: Hi guys!! As official leader of the Orkneys, I'll be taking periodic attendance to make sure everyone is okay :) 
> 
> Clarissant: mordred?
> 
> Mordred: he's dead
> 
> Clarissant. I'm going to mark you down as present, but with a frowny face. Gareth?
> 
> Mordred: he abandoned us for his girlfriend and tristan
> 
> Clarissant: Aw! Gaheris?
> 
> Mordred: he. huh
> 
> Mordred: hes at gawains right?
> 
> Agravaine: nope. He left idk where he is
> 
> Mordred: wait so is it just??
> 
> Mordred: no. no?
> 
> Agravaine: no!
> 
> Mordred: ew
> 
> Clarissant: What’s happening guys?
> 
> Mordred: ew

* * *

“Maybe it’s not working because you burned down a church to get it,” Mordred pointed out cynically. “I’m not an expert but I bet Jesus objects to that.”

The blood in the mug jiggled unnaturally like jello when Galahad slammed it on the counter. “It’s not a sin to steal from the perverted corpse of the church. They don’t even do tonsured pates anymore.”

“Wait, real? Percy?”

“Huh?” Percival turned away from the window, where a speaker was still blasting mid 2000’s pop onto the fiery streets of London. “Oh, I don’t know I can’t say. Lent.”

“What?”

“I gave it up for Lent,” he insisted.

Galahad, abandoning his mental death spiral in favour of momentary confusion, looked up from the blood spear mug cocktail. “..gave what up for Lent?” 

“Well,” Percival was a bit sheepish. “It’s supposed to be something that’s very important to you, and, and my faith is very important to me, you know, so, I thought, for Lent, I stopped being Catholic.”

“Percival.” Galahad began in a strained voice. “Lent ended almost three months ago.”

“He’s very dedicated to the faith, I suppose,” Mordred observed delightedly.

“Bors has blocked me… Percivals lapsed… my father is a criminal and a whore… Dindrane was just Percival with long hair… The Grail gang is in shambles. Shambles.”

“But bastard club is thriving.”

Galahad whirled on the couch. “No it isn't. It’s stupid and the only reason people went was because you forced or tricked them. You have no natural leadership skills or charisma, that's why you aren’t heir.”

Mordred shrugged. “That’s fair. Also fair is that maybe God doesn’t want you to be his poster boy anymore due to the fact that you're a sanctimonious asshole.”

“.. so what did you guys give up for Lent?” Percival asked into the silence that followed.

“I’d love to delve into it,” Mordred held up his phone and smirked, “But my  _ father  _ is calling me. Good luck with your grand destiny. It’s going super good so far!”

With that he rose, navigating the apartment with familiar confidence, even avoiding setting off the flame trap in the doorway.

“Yeah, well-- dasvidaniya. Fruit.” 

The door closed with a click.

“Good. Good,” Galahad repeated. “The wicked are being shriven from the flock of the true faithful, a singular flock of just myself.”

“I’m still here,” Percival offered.

“You aren’t even Catholic.”

He brightened. “No, look, I’ve figured out-- the sins, when you convert, you get a new start, so I’ll just get re baptized right now and I’ll be--”

With a put upon sigh, Galahad told him to just mind the generator, and went back to despairing. 

“God is ignoring me,” he said aloud. But quiet enough that Percival wouldn’t hear and try to cheer him up. After a few minutes he heard a startled cry, a loud crash, and the cessation of music. Then the smell of smoke through his lone small window, which he ignored. He pretended it was incense, and the fire and chaos through his window was a baroque painting in an altar triptych. Then he closed the blinds over the doomed souls writhed in hell outside.

* * *

> Mordred: okay so I know last time we tried to accomplish something it was a bad idea
> 
> Mordred: and u said we werent doing crime or murder or plots anymore excet the one time you did but you said it was okay because dinadan thought it was okay
> 
> Mordred: and also when u asked me to help you i said no and called you a loser
> 
> Mordred: BUT
> 
> Mordred: consider
> 
> Mordred: i'm bored
> 
> Agravaine: …
> 
> Agravaine: woah would you look at that my phone is dying. Oh no. bye

* * *

King Arthur had been trying to draw the sword in the stone for about twenty minutes now with no success. He tried various angles, he tried sneaking up on it, he tried stretching first, he tried asking the sword politely to surrender itself from its entombment. All strategies with, of course, no results. With every attempt he felt weaker, every tug he felt strength drain from his arms, which were shaking now, in pain and exertion. 

He sunk to his knees, drained as he would be after a battle, and kept trying the sword, pushing up on the crossguard from below. The exposed blade cut his shaking fingers in several places. It was snowing, and distantly Arthur wondered if he’d been trying for so long that the mild spring morning upon which he’d begun had passed months ago. Would he have noticed the sun setting? Or was it ash, not snow, which was settling heavily on the ground around him, on his shoulders, in his hair like a circlet.

There was nothing for it. The sheen of the sword was coming off on his hands as a streaky blackish sheen, mixing with the blood like paint on an oil slick, leaving the finely crafted metal of the blade a dull grey stained with rusted crimson. 

Snow was falling quickly now, white and grey and black at the edges of his vision, greyscale and red swimming together in the courtyard like the great wheel he’d seen once in a dream, not long before the end, turning and turning and spilling him from the seat at the top to be crushed among the spokes. Whirling together till the grey overtook the white, the black overtook the grey, and all of it was gone.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh thank you for reading if you did! heart heart heart to anyone still reading after that stupid long break. i have chapter 27 already written and ill post it when i finish 28, that way i can hopefully prevent any more long gaps. only three more chapters!!! much love and please feel free to yell at me in the comments (or talk about anything lol)


	27. Two Subpar Rescues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a surprise appearance from an old . friend? and a sudden spurring into action

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi. i havent slept in like fourty hoursssss wahoo but ive had this written for like a week chapter 28 SOON i promise if its not out in a week send me a bunch of dms and asks harassing me please god i WILL finish this fic before break is over

“Okay. Okay,” Gawain spread his hands in front of him, up towards the grey sky. “It’s, ahh, it’s Bors’ fault, for being too polite to properly stop you from doing things. If he had forced you to go on a hunting trip when he asked you to, no scandal, no fall.”

Lancelot nodded. “Yes,  _ but,  _ if-- if Claudas hadn’t invaded my fathers kingdom I never would have become a knight of the round table and then Camelot wouldn’t have fallen. So it was Claudas’ fault.”

A somewhat earnest conversation had taken a darkly comedic turn, and they had now managed to pin the fall of Camelot on nearly everyone except those directly responsible. 

“No, no but it’s actually the fault of Galehaut, because if he hadn’t enabled the affair--”

“I’ve said there was no affair,” Lancelot protested halfheartedly. “There really wasn’t.”

“Right totally. Uh huh. Why not?” Gawain demanded, almost offended.

“Wh-- what do you mean why not?”

“As Guineveres best friend it is my duty to defend her honour,” Gawain explained with some self importance. “Are you saying you wouldn’t have a treasonous affair with her? Why not?”

“Well I--”

“Isn’t she the most beautiful woman in the world?”

“I suppose--”

“Isn’t she the smartest and--”

“Why look why don’t you have an affair with her then?” Lancelot asked sarcastically.

Gawain grimaced. “Ew. She’s my aunt. God. I’m just saying, why wouldn’t  _ you?” _

“Well-- look-- as much as I like Guinevere I don’t think it would work out, based on the fact that both of us are gay.”

Gawain mulled this over. “Hm. I suppose the offense is forgiven then. But you’re on thin ice.”

“Thanks.”

Thoughtfully, Gawain ripped up another chunk of grass. It seemed to be some sort of vengeful effort against the place that had them so turned around. “I suppose that does explain some things. When I was a ghost--”

“When you were a what?” 

“Maybe that's it, maybe I’m already dead!” Gawain exclaimed, with an increasingly wild eyed expression. “I’m already dead and trapped here forever!”

Lancelot considered this proposition. “I don’t feel dead, physically speaking. I think I’d know.”

“No, no,” Gawain waved this off. “You’re not dead, obviously. I’m dead. You’re just sort of hanging around.”

“Okay. Maybe. I don’t think so.”

“There’s precedent for the situation.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, there's uh,” he waved his hand, then gave up. “Oh, I don’t know. My brain isn’t working at the moment. I hate this mist, I hate-- you know what, clouds are always fucking up my life, I think...”

Gawain continued talking about the weather at length, not stopping or apparently noticing Lancelot sit up, fiddle with his ring thoughtfully for a moment then remove it. He only stopped talking, abruptly, when Lancelot took his wrist, not ungently, and slid the plain silver ring onto his finger.

Following several bemused blinks and glances, Gawain sat up fully to stare at Lancelot. “Ah. Yeah I see what you’ve done here. Clever.”

“Thank you.”

“One problem,” Gawain said, examining his hand with a frown, “Is that there is no one here excepting you for me to trick or lie to or seduce. So besides from entertainment purposes I see no use for my being slightly less stupid than before. In fact I think I was enjoying dying more when I was pseudo-drunk on haunted mist.” 

Before Lancelot could say anything more substantial than “ah,” they were interrupted by a sudden rumbling in the distance. “Oh goodness.”

“Maybe it’s a huge monster. God I’ve never been so happy to be eaten.” Gawain quirked his head to one side thoughtfully. “Well,”

The rumbling grew both louder and recognizable, as much familiar as confusing as they looked at each other with cautious befuddlement.

"You also hear a motorcycle, right?" Gawain asked to make sure, receiving a nod. "I think they're going around us in a circle for dramatic effect."

"No I'm not!" Someone called out from the fog.

"Well come out then!" Gawain yelled back.

"You ruin everything," Mabon muttered sulkily, emerging from the mist on a blue motorbike. The grass underneath its wheels was being torn to muddy shreds, surely a continuation of Gawain’s good work earlier.

Gawain waved affably. "Hello Mabon. Does your mother know you aren't wearing a helmet?"

"She sent me actually," he said, pulling up next to them and notably ignoring the question. "Since you two were bungling it so badly and going in circles."

"Bungling--" Gawain sputtered in affront. "How was I supposed to-- there's nothing out here, nothing happening, how were we supposed to find anything?"

“Didn’t you think to ask for directions when you were told to go to a place you didn’t know the location of?”

“Well--” Gawain blanched. “I ah-- I figured that since last time-- Okay yeah, I see what you were saying earlier, Lancelot. Noted.”

"You came to help?" asked Lancelot, heroically steering the conversation back to urgent reality.

Mabon brightened. "Yes! See, Gawain, now I'm rescuing you so you can shut up about the tower incident."

"I can't. You haven't done anything yet," he pointed out, growing impatient. "I'll be honest I've attended many better rescues than this one."

"Well, I'll just leave then,since you don't appreciate my efforts," Mabon announced, getting back on his bike.

"Uh huh."

"I really will. I'll leave you here."

"I believe you," Gawain insisted, with a carefully neutral expression in which only Lancelot could read amusement.

"I will!" Mabon fiddled with the handlebars. "But I won't because I'm so nice. Okay. I'll show you the way to your big meeting and you'll get there in time."

"Great rescue. You'll help me go to my death. I feel eminently rescued," Gawain muttered, but quiet enough that Mabon could pretend not to hear.

How exactly they were supposed to find the route Mabon led them on without outside knowledge was a topic of many muttered asides Gawain made over the following hour. Nodding politely and saying "hm" to such muttered asides was an integral part of their friendship that Lancelot was long accustomed to by now, so he bore it with grace.

The path seemed to open up unnaturally before them, the mist only parting for Mabon to reveal a tunnel in the earth, which Gawain exhibited great restraint in not remarking on its similarity to incidences in his previous exploits. The earth hummed around them, and never seemed to grow completely dark no matter how far they went, trailing behind Mabon at a half jog to keep up.

They emerged into dense greenery, the sort of old growth forest that the actual island of Britain had long since been divested of, and now only existed in memory and mist. The trees were so tall and thick that it was like standing upon the ocean floor and looking up towards the surface through emerald water.

“There,” Mabon said triumphantly, pulling up at the entrance to a clearing, where a perfect circle of stones delineated the border. “And you’re fifteen minutes early, too. I told you it would be a great rescue.”

“Thank you Mabon,” Gawain said, somewhat dismissively. “Loved the rescue, but I’d like to enjoy my last fifteen minutes so I’m sure you’ve somewhere to be.” This last part he said not with his mouth but his manner. 

Mabon shifted awkwardly. “Well, bye Gawain.”

“Bye Mabon.”

“Bye Mabon,” Lancelot repeated, somewhat more nicely.

Mabon took the hint, and soon they were hearing rumbling sounds retreating into the distance. They didn’t say anything to each other for a moment, just stood, small beneath the ancient trees, and felt the weight of the hour sink it’s teeth into them. The sunlight in the clearing was almost a shock after so much fog and darkess, golden and lovely and revealing. Lancelot had his arms crossed over his chest, leaned back against a tree whos trunk was several yards around, and when Gawain spoke again he opened a single eye to regard him.

“I ah, I suppose I’m thanking you. For coming with me, for one and, well you know everything else.”

“Oh, well-- of course,” Lancelot said quietly, paying full attention now. “Of course I came with you.”

Gawain smiled almost uncomfortably. “It’s appreciated. I think-- last time around there were things I wanted to say that I didn’t, and then it was too late, and I’m afraid it’s too late again. But I really--” He stopped and looked intensely thoughtful. “Hm. One second, put a pin in that thought. Can I borrow your phone?” 

Lancelot blinked. “Uh-- yes?” 

Accepting the phone, Gawain held up a finger and took a few steps away. “Hey, Guinevere. Thanks for picking up, I had an urgent thought.”

“Oh my god, Gawain, I’ve been pretending to talk to you for the past half hour,” Guinevere's tinny voice was heard from the speaker.

Gawain frowned. “That’s troubling but-- okay. Look, I have a proposal for you that should be mutually beneficial.”

“I’m listening.”

* * *

Mordred was grimacing down at his phone, perched on the darkened fire escape of some strangers apartment keeping half an eye on the fire in the distance. His strategy of being largely rude and unpleasant had been fun at the time but now that no one wanted to answer his texts it was suddenly less amusing, he had to admit. Maybe he didn’t have any leadership skills of charisma. That could be learned couldn’t it? He wasn’t sure. There were workshops maybe. 

He hadn’t had a plan of action in so many words, no, but having no plan had made him king of England in his defense. Well, briefly. And then he’d died. Okay.

“Alright,” he said aloud, trying to remember what exactly happened in ll those meetings he paid no attention in. “I have to take stock of my allies.” He scrolled through his phone. Only one person was currently both online and speaking to him.

“Hey, Gaheris,” Mordred said with the opposite of pep. “Would you uhm, will you be my minion?”

“Like your servent?”

“Yeah.”

There was an audible shrug. “Yeah okay. Where are you?”

Mordred gave him the address of a nearby church, then had a thought. “You know what, bring your dog. I’m-- I’m rallying the troops.”

“Yes sir.”

God bless Gaheris, he was a follower at heart. 

They met up in front of the church, where Mordred, hopped up onto the stairwell to address his troops: One brother, and one large dog.

“You may be wondering, Mordred, why did you ask for the dog?” Mordred asking, projecting his voice in case a crowd gathered to support him.

“Well, He needed a walk anyway.”

Ignoring Gaheris, he went on. “As you know, our glorious king, my legal and biological father, is currently Missing In Action.”

“Is he? I didn’t know that.”

Mordred glared down at the troops. “Stop interrupting, Gaheris. Yes, he’s missing. God. I had a rythm going and you’ve ruined it.”

“Whatever.”

Following a three count and a deep breath, Mordred went on. “I want you to use your hunting dog to hunt down my da. Can you handle that? Without beheading anyone or anything?”

Gaheris looked unhappily up at his brother. “That was a low blow.”

“Oh--well-- sorry. Can I  _ please  _ use your dog.”

“It’s Gawain’s dog really,” Gaheris said mildly. “I’m just keeping him.”

Somehow, they managed to avoid coming to physical blows, mainly because Mordred had a strong suspicion Gaheris could beat him handily and an equally strong worry about what his brother would do next. Especially considering the huge demonic dog he had. 

Dormorth didn’t seem to need anything to sniff, just set off when instructed in what they had to hope was the correct direction. He led them through the city and past groups of looters, who parted, as people tended to do, before the massive black dog with glowing red eyes. Many crossed themselves as they passed, and Mordred did not flip them off, because he suspected it wasn’t politic. He wanted to though.

The frequency and volume of sirens increased as they went on and towards the former site of Buckingham palace, where ash was falling from the sky like snow after so many unsuccessful bombings of the newly sprung up castle. The whole area was cordoned off and patrolled, but caution tape was nothing before the great black hound, and no guards dared even to fire upon them.

Dormarch led them up to the doors of the castle, and pawed at the closed wicket gate. Mordred pounded a few times on the thick wooden door to no result, and swore. 

“Morgan,” he spat into his phone. “I need-- magic firepower or something. Like, now.”

“I’m a bit busy at the moment trying to salvage everything,” she snapped back, voice crinkling with static as she distorted the signal without trying. “Is it so very important?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, alright. Since you’re my favourite nephew, I’ll send over an old friend. Stand by.” She hung up, and Mordred quickly dropped the phone, which was beginning to steam. Morgan had sort of a way with electronics when she wasn’t paying attention.

“I wonder who--”

Then the gate exploded in green fire. “Hullo lads!” Sebile cried cheerfully, appearing suddenly atop the battlements. “That’s what you wanted exploded, right? I can explode more things. Really just say the word, it’s gone,” she snapped, and both Orkneys flinched.

Around them, woodchip sized pieces of door were raining down, and the castle that the military force of the British crown hadn’t put a scratch on had a very significant hole in the side. “Uh, no Miss Sebile. Thank you Miss Sebile. That’s all Miss Sebile,” Mordred managed. He’d only met Morgan’s sorceress friend Sebile a handful of times, but what he did know was that he was very, very afraid of her.

She sighed. “If you’re sure then. Well, I’m off to explode more things in other places. For the good of the cause of course.”

“Of course Miss Sebile. Have a good day Miss Sebile.”

He didn’t let out the breath he’d been holding till she vanished from the battlements. Then, he stepped over the wreckage and into the courtyard of Camelot, with Gaheris and the dog following behind.

In the center of a beam of light, perfectly picturesque, sat the sword, embedded in it’s stone. For a moment, it was all Mordred saw in the empty courtyard. Then, his eyes fell on a hunched figure, dark against the ash and stone, knelt before the sword, and he rushed over.

King Arthur was bent over the stone, hands bloody and face pale, and he was not breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always if ur still reading this fic i love yoyu we shall have a spring wedding but only if you are rich or at least super hot


	28. Gawain Makes His Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gawain faces judgement. mordred tries leadership. galahad tries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONLY TWO MORE CHAPTERS i have nine days left and plan to get them both out by then gopd bless

“Good luck,” Gawain said into the phone as his time ticked down to less than one minute. He hung up and threw his phone off into the distance with sudden force.

“I miss the drama of flip phones,” he explained, at Lancelot's confused look. “I, uh-- wish me luck. Don’t wait up.”

Then he stepped into the clearing and seemed to disappear into the soft sunlight. Not even the birds were singing, and there was no wind.

“Good luck,” said Lancelot into the lonely silence of the forest. 

* * *

“Thank you for your patience,” Guinevere said with a nervous smile, returning to Gildas and Ragnelle. “I had to take an urgent call. As I said, I believe I have devised an equitable solution.”

“Do tell,” said Ragnelle with open concern. She glanced outside and frowned. “You’d better be quick. I sense I’m about to become a widow.”

To her credit, she almost seemed upset about it.

“Gildas cannot come to an agreement while there is still such strong magical influence over the proposed king, and Ragnelle is concerned over the unpaid power he has used so far to promote his rule and the, ah, damage such actions may have done to PR. I have a way to make recompense for what has been used and to present a suitable and public solidarity with the church.”

“Oh?”

Guinevere checked her phone surreptitiously. “Yes. And it should take effect in approximately fifteen seconds.”

* * *

It was the same clearing he had seen from outside, but now there was a large stone in the center, and atop that stone sat a figure. Upon a moment of peering and trying to make out distinguishing features, Gawain quickly concluded it was best to look at the ground instead. For the figure was continually shifting, so rapidly as to make one’s head spin. Sometimes horned, sometimes tall, now a great green man and then a slim young woman, sometimes a hunter with antlers or a shining helmet, then a crone, and all of these at once.

“You have been using our gift without proper payment,” they said. Gawain stopped himself from pointing out that, technically, that wasn’t what ‘gift’ meant, and simply nodded with affected contrition.

“And now you must pay with your life.”

Gawain raised his hand. There was a brief confused silence.

Finally they pointed and spoke. “Uh. Yes? Gawain? You don’t have to raise your hand.”

“Thank you, your honour. I wanted to formally request that you grant me the choice of how I should give my life to you? It’s just that I would like to avoid beheading, and I sort of have a thing with drowning too, so I was wondering--”

“Yes, yes, fine. We’re sort of on a timetable here if you don’t mind.”

And at that Gawain wasn’t quite able to suppress a small smirk. “Of course.”

With characteristic, melodrama, he knelt down as if being knighted, as much a show of obeisance as an effort at hiding a grin. “I choose to give my life in payment, in servitude to the interests of your people-- as your king.”

Of course, it would be impossible for such a forest as this to be only trees and moss and undergrowth, with no birds to chatter or small mammals to skitter about the brush, or insects to creep along the bark of the massive trees. The seeds needed animals to propagate them, for nutrient recycling to maintain the soil, to eat parasites that might threaten the trees, to do a hundred other unnoticed things that make such an impressive forest sustainable. Thousand year old trees as big around as a car depend upon the lives and actions of tiny insects that only live a day.

Nevertheless, there were no crickets here. If there were, they would have been chirping loudly and comedically in the lengthy, stunned silence following Gawain’s request. 

“You… can’t do that?”

“Why not?” Gawain asked.

This stumped them. “Well-- well you--” They snapped. “well, you’re a mortal man. So you can’t.”

Gawain looked up, met shifting eyes. “About that.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“As of, oh, thirty seconds ago--”

“You fucking bastard.”

He stood. The patch of grass where he’d knelt sprouted small white flowers. He mentally thanked Guinevere for her exquisite dramatic timing. “That’s king bastard to you, thank you very much.”

“I don’t understand how you haven’t been murdered more.”

Gawain shrugged modestly. “I’m very talented like that.”

* * *

“What do you want? I’m praying,” Galahad snapped into the phone. This meant he was laying face down on the floor listening to a self help audiobook and trying to get high on scented candles.

“Just checking in,” said Mordred suspiciously. “Just seeing how the grail thing was going. No reason.”

“What do you want.”

There was some loud, unidentifiable background noise on the other side of the line that boded very poorly indeed. “There's sort of a crisis.”

“You don’t say.”

“Right. Look. I’m never going to say this again but I just think now might be the time for-- you know. Jesus of Nazareth.”

Galahad turned off his audiobook unhappily. He did not feel helped. “I’m the only true son of God and he has abandoned me at life's nunnery. What is your crisis, Mordred?”

“...I mean I was going to ask if you could help make my father not be dead but it sounds like you’re having a pretty significant crisis too and I don’t want to deal so maybe I’ll try Morgan. Good luck with Lancelot being a metaphor for God.”

“He is not! If anything he’s Lucifer. Because of the na-- wait.” Galahad sat up abruptly. “Your father is what? Where are you?”

“Oh good, you’re helping. I’m at the new Camelot. Bring Jesus!” 

Then Mordred hung up the phone.

Galahad counted to ten. Indulged in a few deep sighs and sinful thoughts of violence. Then called for Percival to fetch the blood mug and a coat.

About twenty minutes later (Percival had a car apparently. Until this moment Galahad did not know or care about this, but figured distantly that Percival was chaperoned around London by animated woodland animals or perhaps floating cherub statues come to life) they found themselves parking with shocking competence a block away from the cordoned off area.

“I don’t know why we brought this mug,” Galahad said thoughtfully, staring at it in the now bloody cupholder with distaste. 

“You should donate it to a blood bank,” suggested Percival, offering him a stick of gum as he got out of the car.

Not listening, Galahad retrieved the mug and set off toward the nearest garland of yellow tape, to desecrate it.

“Alright,” he demanded, meeting Mordred and, to his additional distaste, Gaheris at the smoking crater where the front gate had been. “How dead is he exactly?”

Mordred shrugged awkwardly. “I’m not a doctor, dude. Fuck if I know. Just bleed on him or pray at him or something. Like, now. Oh, hi Percy.”

“Right. Right,” Galahad said as Percival waved hi. “Just so you know, if it doesn’t work-- it’s because he wasn’t a good enough Christian.”

“Your confidence is super reassuring.” Mordred griped, following Galahad into the courtyard. “Impeccable bedside manner Doctor Bible.”

After so many months of being roommates Galahad was fairly good at ignoring these comments from Mordred, even under pressure, and instead proceeded to the-- body? He decided it was bad luck to think of it that way. Patient. The Patient.

“So, how exactly did this happen?” Galahad asked, looking from the sword to the man, noting the blood on his hands and the clean sword.

Mordred scowled and shrugged. “Less talking, more praying. I dunno, doesn’t matter.”

“I can’t do it when you’re looking at me,” Galahad insisted, suddenly self conscious. “Everyone turn around.”

With a surprisingly lack of griping, Percival, Gaheris and Mordred turned back to face the explosion hole.

Galahad turned back to the corpse, and thought back to the Fisher King. Blood from the spear-- well, he had that, so with a wince he dipped two fingers into the warm thick blood in the mug and slathered it over Arthur’s cut hands. It was unpleasantly reminiscent of basting a roast, and affected no change at all as far as he could observe. The cuts on Arthurs hands remained cuts, very slowly leaking blood.

Bleeding. Huh.

“His cuts are still bleeding,” Galahad pointed out. 

“Then you’re doing a super bad job!”

“No, no I mean-- I mean they wouldn’t be bleeding if his heart wasn’t beating. It has to be beating to push the blood out.”

“Not true.” Gaheris sounded thoughtful, which boded poorly. “There was so much blood when I-- ow! Did you just-- Mordred you  _ stabbed  _ me!”

Mordred did not sound remorseful. “Only a little! Now stop talking or-- or I’ll have Percival beat you up. Can I turn around? I’m turning around.”

He turned around. 

“I think he’s breathing, but it’s very shallow. His heart is beating too, but it’s faint.”

Mordred crouched next to the not-body (living person) hopefully. “How do you know?”

“He’s a real surgeon!” Percival piped up from behind them. “Once I accidentally cut open my knee on one of your crazy statues and he gave me three stitches with dental floss. I’ve got a really cool scar.”

“Real?”

“Not real!” Galahad said quickly. “I was a med student but I switched to theology. That’s why I haven’t graduated yet.”

“I went to Oxford Christchurch for PPE,” Gaheris said, still with his back to them as ordered.

“Shut up Gaheris!” all three others yelled. 

Mordred stood abruptly and began pacing back and forth. “Alright, alright, I’m thinking fast. I’m making confident decisions with confidence,” he had looked up leadership guides on his phone while Galahad blood-painted. “And I’ve decided we’re going to try this angle. Your religion thing is a bust so try that med thing.”

“I’ve got a first aid kit in my car!” Percival announced, and dashed off before anyone could tell him that bandaids and antiseptic gel was probably not gonna cut it. 

Galahad reassessed the situation in a renewed panic. This was not part of his traditional skill set. This was not how it was supposed to happen. “Okay. Uh. Well assuming a mundane ailment we might expect a heart attack or stroke, or some sort of paralytic agent which-- well it could have entered through the cuts on her hands. For instance, if there was some sort of substance on the sword?”

“That tracks. I think there’s some sort of illusion on the sword itself. That could be why there’s no blood.”

Galahad nodded thoughtfully. “His heart is pumping weakly but normally and there aren’t any other physical tells of heart attack or stroke. He’s not lost enough blood to hemorrhage. The sword theory seems the most likely.”

“So we definitely shouldn’t touch that sword then,” Mordred said, looking at it with open suspicion. “Fuck! Gaheris-- call Morgan and tell her what’s happened.”

“She said not to bother her again. She’s gonna get mad.”

“I just need her to fetch something,” Galahad said quietly.

Mordred looked back away from his brother. “Huh?”

“Well-- I’m not sure but I think based on-- on the way it was applied and how he’s reacting-- I think the sword had a paralytic agent applied which acted by targeting an acetylcholine receptor. So, I need Morgan to use her-- you know, her dark magics, to steal an acetylcholinesterase inhibitor. I think it would be good to ask an anesthesiologist.”

Gaheris wavered for a moment. “She seemed kind of mad is all.”

“Gaheris!”

Galahad rolled his eyes and grabbed the phone from Gaheris. “Ms Witch I have an urgent problem and an equally urgent potential solution.”

Morgan paused her efforts at corralling her immediate family to deliver aid to her other immediate family, dropping off a number of medical supplies with supernatural speed. 

With hands that weren’t shaking as much as he expected, Galahad administered an intramuscular injection. They waited nervously, and while they waited they cleaned and applied Percival’s Hello Kitty™ bandaids to the cuts.

“His heartbeat seems stronger,” Galahad said hopefully. “And his breathing, too.”

They waited a little longer, Morgan having vanished as quickly as she came. Above the castle walls they could see vague figures of buildings, and a few tongues of orange flame licking up at the scattered, distant stars. The king's breathing grew more even, his heartbeat stronger. He opened his eyes.

Immediately, there was a cacophony of gasps and exclamations from the four young men gathered around, silenced only by Mordred shoving the others aside.

“I saved you,” said Mordred quickly. “With my leadership skills. I organized the saving.”

“You did a really good job. I’m definitely alive,” said Arthur encouragingly after a moment of looking around in confusion. “Breathing and everything, the whole nine.”

Arthur was gently helped to sit up, and once he was up he peered into the distance, then broke out in a wide smile that drew lines around his eyes. “I see you went ahead and solved everything while I was asleep.”

They turned to see what he was looking at, then froze in shock. 

“I definitely did that too,” Mordred said quietly.

The sun was rising in the east. Golden light flowed over the city like water into a dry riverbed after a drought, the darkness in the sky fleeing west before a tide of purple and orange fading swiftly into light blue.

Percival was the only one who could speak into the awed silence.“Hey Mordred? Do you still want me to beat Gaheris up?”

* * *

> Dinadan: suns back
> 
> Palamedes: *nods* suns back
> 
> Percival: yay!! ヽ(*⌒▽⌒*)ﾉ
> 
> Bedivere: you guys realize this means gawain is DEAD right?
> 
> Lionel: oh yeah
> 
> Lionel: i genuinely forgot about that 
> 
> Lionel: i feel like its been months since yesterday
> 
> Percival: unyay (╥﹏╥)
> 
> Dinadan: eh. Hes been dead before
> 
> Bedivere: you people are all. REALLy mean wow
> 
> Gareth: you guys actually hate gawain…. I thought we were joking
> 
> Dinadan: he literally murdered me
> 
> Dinadan: but yeah i'm joking. Rip in pieces dude

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if ur reading this i love u if u comment i will marry you right now


	29. Sunrise (and some other stuff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> arthur reveals himself to the world. gawain returns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHH second to last chapter!!! very exciting

> Mordred: I did it. I saved the day. You’re welcome
> 
> Lionel: huh?
> 
> Mordred: i saved king arthur
> 
> Gaheris: galahad saved arthur
> 
> Mordred: well i told him to
> 
> Tristan: saved arthur from what? lol
> 
> Bedivere: was he missing?
> 
> Mordred: …
> 
> Mordred: jesus
> 
> * * *

“Oh, good, you’re up,” said Morgan, appearing behind them without warning. “While my brother was napping I got everyone in order. You have about ten minutes to be very public and take credit for the sun returning while it’s fresh news.”

Arthur looked up at his sister somewhat blearily. “Uh huh?”

She reached into her jean pockets and pulled out a spatially improbable can of Monster Energy. “Just slam this and follow me towards the cameras, and you’ll be crowned by lunchtime.”

But Arthur was looking contemplative, so much so that he made no comment when Galahad winced and took the drink can, shoving it off to one side. “Do you know where Guinevere is? And Vivian? I would hope they would be here.”

“I’ll call and see,” Percival offered, helpful as ever. 

“That won’t be necessary, I think.”

Ragnelle was perched on the battlements, looking down on them, and Guinevere was beside her looking decidedly smug. If any of them were in the mood for perception, they may have noted that there was something seemingly different about her. None of them were.

“Fucking Christ, is everyone gonna show up in this courtyard?” Mordred asked aloud. No one answered.

* * *

> Agravaine: so. uh. the sun is back
> 
> Gareth: i feel bad for kicking gawain out of the group chat now
> 
> Gaheris: sorry gawain you can come back to the orkney groupchat
> 
> Agravaine: no he cant hes fucking dead
> 
> Agravaine: god gaheris
> 
> Agravaine: next time we kill gaheris instead
> 
> Gaheris: you can try 
> 
> Clarissant: oh no!
> 
> Clarissant: i dont think gawain would want you to fight
> 
> Gaheris: …. Okay. sorry gawain. Bye gawain
> 
> Agravaine: sorry gawain. Wish you werent dead
> 
> Gareth: :((((
> 
> Lancelot: hi guys i'm using lancelots phone. I'm immortal now! Be there soon. Much love!
> 
> Agravaine: i fucking hate you so much

* * *

“Alright, let me get you up to speed,” Guinevere said after a quick hello. “I reached a deal with some opposing forces and as long as you don’t fake any more miracles we are good to go. Also, I’m a mortal woman again now. Oh, and before we forget-- you should know that Gawain is fine. He’s probably waiting for the most dramatic moment to reveal he’s alive. Please act surprised.”

“He’s gonna be pissed you ruined his entrance,” Mordred pointed out.

“He’ll live.”

Before anyone could make any particular exclamations of joyous surprise at this news more than to smile, Vivian ran into the courtyard, accompanied by a shower of rain which ended after a few moments, leaving them all confused and slightly damp. Vivian looked harried and out of breath, her long white dress torn and stained and hair undone. 

“Oh, come on,” Mordred muttered.

She waved weakly then collapsed against the wall, sitting heavily on a chunk of rubble. “I came as soon as I saw the sun was-- oh my dress is still on fire,” she pinched the smoldering section of skirt and it hissed, smoked and went out. “There was so much arson.”

“Is that where you’ve been off to?” Morgan questioned.

Vivian smiled tightly, as if she was counting to ten in her head. “Stopping the country from burning down. Yes.”

With the sudden apparation of a clipboard in her hand, Guinevere cleared her throat. “Alright. Anything further to address before we go reveal Arthur to the world and crown him?”

Arthur raised a hand. “I’m not sure I--”

“Anyone else?”

“Uh-- who put an illusion on the poison sword?” Galahad asked. “And if that isn’t the sword in the stone, where is it? And where’s Excalibur?”

“I wondered that too,” admitted Arthur, looking back and forth from Morgan to Vivian for answers.

With a sigh, Vivian regarded the sword. Under her gaze, the illusion melted away and it became a dented, blood streaked Renn Faire sword encased in concrete. “I don’t know who did this. But Arthur-- you couldn’t have expected this to be the sword in the stone? You broke it, remember, fighting Pellinore fifteen hundred years ago. And Excalibur you gave up. You shant see either of those blades again.”

Arthur was silent for a moment. Then, to their surprise, he laughed, hearty and long. “I suppose that was silly. You’re right, quite right-- it was all-- very silly.”

He was still smiling, almost peacefully, though why none could guess.

“Hey, there you all are,” said Dinadan from the blasted out doorway. “I--”

“Oh no,” Mordred burst out, standing. “No this courtyard is at maximum fucking capacity. Get the fuck out. Out!”

“I can leave?” Percival offered tentatively.

“No. You stay. Dinadan leaves.”

“Can I talk first?”

“Fine. From the doorway.”

He shrugged and tried to subtly put his guitar away, because he was definitely never planning to put this update to song. “There’s a huge crowd gathered outside. Media too, for what it’s worth. Oh and-- everyone else.”

* * *

> Lancelot: so, suns back right?
> 
> Agravaine: yes :/
> 
> Gareth: wait, gawain what happened to your phone?
> 
> Lancelot: …
> 
> Lancelot: destroyed unavoidably
> 
> Agravaine: no. i dont believe thats true. 

* * *

Somehow, they managed to make their way out of the thrice-damned courtyard before anyone else could appear on the scene. Guinevere and Arthur went first, followed by Morgan and an exhausted Vivian, then everyone else. It felt more like a formal retinue that it had any right to, especially once they made it out of the gates, and Tristan joined them, playing accompanying music of suitable gravity.

As they wound around the castle to the front and the public square, from which sounded the cries of a throng of people, the retinue grew longer. Knights in anachronistic gleaming armour joined the train two or three at a time.

“You look less miserable than normal,” Mordred commented when Agravaine found his two younger brothers in the orderly throng. “Did you do this?”

“Uh. Other people helped. But kind of yeah.”

“Okay, I’m still mad at you for ignoring me but I’m also kind of impressed. What the fuck?”

“I used the power of, you know, healing and forgiveness. And stealing and blackmail and community, and a few threats,” Agravaine explained awkwardly.

“Oh. That’s cool. I saved Arthur. Single handedly.”

“I believe that,” Agravaine lied.

“I’m here too,” said Gaheris. 

“Nobody cares.”

Despite the similar such small disputes breaking out among the ranks, and the fact Arthur was wearing khakis and a hawaiian shirt, they managed to present some image of grandeur and decorum. At least, the reaction of the crowd seemed to indicate as such.

Morgan summoned a gilded megaphone from nothingness and handed it to Arthur, who stepped or was perhaps pushed forward.

“Ah-- Greetings all--”

“You’re holding it the wrong way,” Guinevere corrected under her breath.

“Oh! Thank you,” he cleared his throat. “Boy, what a wild few days it’s been huh?”

Morgan winced. “Oh no.”

The crowd muttered in vague, confused agreement. 

“I don’t know if you know this,” Arthur went on unpromisingly. “But my name is Arthur-- I was your king around 500 AD or so. For about thirty years? Ah, go ahead and raise your hand if you’ve heard of me. You might also know me as the once and future king?”

About half the crowd raise a hand, some tentatively.

Seemingly pleased with this turn out Arthur nodded. “Oh that's not bad at all. Okay, so I’ve returned from the dead-- recently-- in the time of your greatest need, to seize the crown and uh, guide you all into a new era of home and peace.”

Some sections of the crowd clapped or whistled to indicate they were open to both hope and peace. The rest seemed basically confused, but the festival air following the return of the sun kept it a non-belligerent confusion. The very cheery and grandiose musical accompaniment was certainly helping.

“I don’t know if you all recall… how it ended-- my last reign, that is. But it wasn’t glorious. I was too easily led, torn in too many directions. Reactive and cowardly and angry, even. I turned on my own family and watched my allies destroy each other. I failed in every way a monarch could. Except the economy that was fine I think. I don’t know, I never really understood money things-- which in itself is a failure I suppose.”

The crowd shifted uncomfortably, and behind him, Arthurs retinue was looking at him with something between shock and horror. Morgan looked about three sentences out from tackling her brother off the stage.

But Arthur looked more sure than he had in the memories of anyone attending, and went on before any well meaning advisors could silence him. “I was completely unqualified to be a king back then, and am even less so today. And yet, I feel responsible for you. For you all,” he added, turning back for a moment to look at those assembled behind him. God bless Tristan for continuing to play, while the crown murmured with a fever pitch.

“So here’s what we’re going to do.”

* * *

> Lancelot: just tell me when hes done talking and gets crowned I dont want to interrupt
> 
> Agravaine: meaning you want the full attention of an already assembled crowd
> 
> Agravaine: also uh about that
> 
> Agravaine: how do i say this
> 
> Agravaine: you know what just stay wherever u are ill give you a heads up
> 
> * * *

Arthur gestured for Guinevere to join him at the front as he began to outline his plan. “I learned some things, recently, because Gawain made me proofread all his political science essays, about, you know, the consent of the governed and all that. And I think-- I think the people who live in the lands I hold, whatever that means, should be the one’s in charge of it. So, I’m, provisionally--” 

He stopped at the reaction of the crowd, smiled slightly so wrinkles appeared around his eyes. “For the next three years, my wife Guinevere, the smartest person to perhaps ever live, will be making executive decisions and overseeing the fair and peaceful development of a sort of-- a new thing, government that is, in the territories I currently hold, those being Wales, England, Scotland, Norway, Northern Italy, Southern…”

Arthur continued to list his ancient holdings, but no one was listening. Shock rang out universally among those assembled in front of and behind him. People at home across the world to whom this speech was being live streamed await in anticipation, except for the ones who had changed the channel to the big football game about five minutes previously and were missing everything. 

The only one who didn’t look surprised was Guinevere, who stepped forward and accepted the megaphone from Arthur when his list was concluded. She smirked and raised it, commanding the attention of all present. “Thank you for your attention and time regarding this announcement. The following five days will be dedicated to recovery and immediately relief from all destruction and ramifications of the day without sun and riots during. When that period is ended I will be holding a press conference here to discuss the next three years and setting up a system of communication for updates, involvement and awareness,”

She paused and looked directly at the cameras present. “I hope this transition and rearrangement of power will be peaceful, but we are prepared to protect the establishment of new systems with force if it should become necessary. Thank you again, and-- goodmorning.”

And it was, by most accounts, one of the better mornings.

* * *

> Agravaine: okay, crowds gone you can come back now
> 
> Lancelot: GONE???
> 
> Lancelot: you ruined my grand entrance....
> 
> Clarissant: well you can have a close friends and family grand entrance
> 
> Lancelot: :(( its just not the same claire
> 
> Mordred: haha 
> 
> Mordred: you cant see but i'm pointing and laughing at you
> 
> * * *

“Hi all,” said Gawain sadly, unlocking the door to his apartment with Lancelot in tow. Lancelot waved and tried unsuccessfully to hide behind Gawain, seeing the unimpressed looks of those inside.

“Hey Gawain,” said Agravaine. He received nonchalant hellos from the rest of his brothers, and a slightly more enthusiastic one from Yvain. Clarissant hugged him tearfully, but that was her usual greeting. Lamorak just rolled his eyes.

“I’m king of the gods now,” said Gawain. “And the deity of spring.”

“That’s nice. We’re playing poker, should I deal you in?” Agravaine offered.

Gaheris frowned. “I thought I was dealing.”

“You deal from the bottom like a dirty cheater.”

“Why don’t you try doing rock paper scissors?”Yvain suggested.

Gareth quirked his head, pulling up chairs for Gawain and Lancelot. “Clarissant is the oldest, let her deal.”

“Wait what? I’m the oldest,” Gawain protested, dropping the god thing in favour of poker. 

“Nope. We voted.”

Gawain shrugged and Clarissant dealt him and Lancelot in. They played for an hour or so, tried to order takeout, were informed by a very nice lady on the phone that they were fucking stupid for thinking they could get takeout when the government had just been dissolved and half the city was burned down, and had leftovers. 

“I think there's a cat under the table,” Gaheris said, half awake and three drinks in. “It bit me.”

“That’s probably the stab wound I gave you,” Mordred said helpfully.

“No it had teeth. Teeth.”

“Oh fucking hell,” said Gawain. “Renard!”

They stared at him in confusion for only a moment before they heard a sheepish voice from under the table. “Yes sir?”

Gawain stuck an arm under the table and withdrew a writhing orange thing as his relatives recoiled. “I assume you’re here to cash in on your senishalship?”

Renard nodded.

“And you are also at fault for attempting to kill my uncle and set me up as king?”

He nodded again.

“I thought as much,” Gawain said, rising calmly from the table and walking across the room, talking as he walked. “While I of course disapprove of your actions, I made an agreement with you that I cannot honourably now break. I will appoint you my senechal and I will, as promised, not harm you.” He opened the window. “Gravity might harm you.”

Then he threw Renard out the window and slammed it back closed.

“What?” he said to the expressions that faced this action. “He’ll be fine. He’ll be back within the week. My turn to deal?”

* * *

> Lancelot: hi i'm texting you under the table. Its not really working bc were using the same phone. 
> 
> Lancelot: uh. --Lancelot
> 
> Lancelot: hi :3 --gawain
> 
> Lancelot: i feel like i didnt really end up helping at all. I just showed up and got pulled into things and, less than a month later its over. I didnt really do all that much-- Lancelot
> 
> Lancelot: well it was nice to have u around --Gawain
> 
> Lancelot: besides, i absolutely wouldn’t have been able to thing of a plan without your ring. And you helped galahad get that rock thing. That ended up being something 
> 
> Lancelot: you dont have to do stuff its just nice to have u around.
> 
> Lancelot: also you should fold because Mordred has three kings --Gawain

* * *

  
  


The courtyard was repaired over the following few days. To Percivals dismay, his mug that said “cunt” with the C as the handle was discarded with the debris, blood and spear still inside.

Underneath the trash in a large recycling bin, underneath layers of stone and wood ships and refuse, the Holy Grail was forgotten, and ended up in a landfill south of Bradford.

* * *

> Dinadan: well tristan your song was really good
> 
> Tristan: my magnus opium!
> 
> Gareth: wait that was isolde feet pics
> 
> Gareth: oh god i hate that i knew that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI i love you also juust to clarify arthur was not a real historical figure. no evidence points to that sorry to get into discourse lol. this is an au where he was. final chapter will be a sort of epilogue and will b up before wednesday hopefully. if u comment i will give u five dollars (lying)


	30. Phone Restitution and One Apple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just a little epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH last chapter!! holy shit. this isnt too long but i just wanted to calmly wrap things up now that the plot is over

> Lancelot: so, big news --gawain
> 
> Bedivere: i already heard
> 
> Lancelot: god damn it --gawain
> 
> Lancelot: guinevere has taken all joy from my life with her evil words --gawain
> 
> Bedivere: anything else i can help you with. Also you dont have to sign off on every text i know its you
> 
> Lancelot: fuck you --gawain
> 
> * * *

They were at Wendys again, because Arthur had offered to purchase for his adult son a small frosty and order of fries as a reward for saving his life. Mordred did not have a say in his reward. But free food was free food, so he went with minimal complaint, as soon as retail places began operating again following the continent wide blackout. 

“It was the right choice, but I do-- I did sort of leave you in the lurch as it was, and I am sorry about that,” Arthur said as they pulled from the drive-through.

Mordred stabbed a straw into the frostee. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Well, giving up my kingship, robs you of any status either. I know you’re ambitious, kingship wise-- historically. I suppose you could go into politics on your own but--”

“Nah.” Mordred shrugged. “I don’t think I’d be very good at it. I recently discovered a uh, a lack of leadership skills.”

Arthur laughed. He laughed a great deal recently, thought the lines on his face made him look younger, rather than older. “Runs in the family, I’m afraid.”

* * *

> Dinadan: PLEASE change the name
> 
> Tristan: no
> 
> Tristan: join my band
> 
> Dinadan: the tattered remains of my dignity will not withstand membership in “Dragon Tongue On Dick The Band”
> 
> Tristan: but palamedes already said yes
> 
> Dinadan: wait really
> 
> Tristan: well he said he’d join if you did. So that makes four members, the ideal band number
> 
> Dinadan: dare I ask
> 
> Tristan: tristan, dinadan, palamedes and tantris. I just wear a wig and I keep taking it on an off between lines 
> 
> Dinadan: ive never changed my mind so quickly. i'm in
> 
> * * *

“I feel like my only job at this point is clipboard storage,” Morgan griped. “You could replace me with a briefcase.”

Guinevere snapped a black binder closed. “Of course not. A briefcase wouldn’t match this outfit.”

If Morgan knew executive power involved so many meetings and notes she probably wouldn't have been so homicidally enthusiastic about it back in the middle ages. But her version of executive power had involved a lot more lounging around on a throne and bossing people around and a lot less voting. This was undoubtedly better in every way except aesthetics.

“We have another meeting in fifteen minutes,” Morgan said, staring at the colour coded schedule on her clipboard and trying not to look despondent. “Some royal family who aren’t pleased about no longer being a royal family.”

Guinevere smiled and tucked a pen behind her ear in a way that was almost menacing. Meetings tended to bring out a charming latent sharkishness in her. “Think on the positive. They might try something and then you’ll get to use the magical diplomatic power of violence.”

* * *

> Mordred: so like can you get me a liver now that ur a doctor again
> 
> Galahad: med student and no
> 
> Galahad: why do you want a used human liver. You already have a functioning liver
> 
> Mordred: i didnt say i wanted one i asked if you could get me one
> 
> Mordred: and i'm trying to make a haunted doll to sell online
> 
> Galahad: …
> 
> Galahad: okay
> 
> Galahad: maybe try grave robbing
> 
> Mordred: i dont like digging
> 
> Mordred: you know what i bet i can trick gaheris into it. Thanks for all the help creating an evil haunted doll to curse people with
> 
> * * *

“I feel like my apartment has become a common area,” Gawain commented, surveying the kitchen with a frown.

“Sorry,” said Lancelot.

“You’re just mad people are eating your food,” Agravaine said, correctly.

Gawain shrugged. “Yeah.”

As his brother went back to DnD, Gawain pulled a package of raw chicken and a bowl out, deposited the first into the second, and placed it on the ground in the kitchen in front of a covered cat bed, upon which “seneschal” was written in sharpie. An orange snout darted out and retrieved this offering before returning to the shadowed darkness within.

“Well, I’m out of cat food now,” he said dryly. “I’m going to the store.”

“Get more snacks,” Lamorak called from the living room.

“Fuck you. Lancelot?”

He looked up from his computer, surprised. “Oh. Ah, I have to pick up a prescription?”

“Great, I’ll drive you. Bon voyage, whores.” he paused then winced. “Uh. Not you Miss Vivian. So sorry.”

Vivian waved him off. She had gotten really into DnD and had invited herself into Lionel’s group on a permanent basis, and was showing a disturbing predilection for fictional violence. She seemed to be letting off arson based resentment.

Gawain apologized to Vivian again and they managed to leave without further incident.

They ended up at Badon Hill again, paper bags in the back of Gawain’s car parked on the side of the highway. They sat in the patchy grass and watched the cars zip by far below as Gawain set up the phone he’d bought.

“Alright. You officially have your phone back,” he said finally.

“Ah. Must I?” Asked Lancelot, who was honestly enjoying the excuse to be unreachable.

“You can always say I broke it,” Gawain offered, leaning back on the grass. “Hey, look at this.”

He held one hand over a patch of grass, and little white flowers began to bloom, spreading out like spilled water to cover an area of a few square meters.

“Thats nice.”

Gawain shook his head. “That’s not it. I did it earlier. Hold on.”

Following a few more moments of concerted squinting, from the center of the flowers a plant sprouted, growing up and out at an accelerated pantomime of natural growth till it became a miniature sapling about chest height. Upon the lowermost branch a bud appeared, which bloomed in a moment into a bright pink flower. A moment later the flower wilted, died and in its place grew a single, perfect red apple.

“There,” Gawain plucked the apple, “that was it.”

Lancelot clapped supportively as Gawain withdrew a pocket knife and halved the apple so they could share it. It was a nice day, partially cloudy and cool without being cold. Sheep were grazing a few hills off, milling about as if they had no idea the world had fundamentally changed.

“I’m glad Arthur found me. I think,” Lancelot observed, lying in the grass with his eyes closed, playing idly with his ring. “I’m even glad you stole Bedivere’s phone and committed identity theft then broke into my apartment.”

“I didn’t break in, you let me in.”

“I ran off to stop the apartment from burning down, and you let yourself in,” Lancelot argued mildly.

Gawain tried not to laugh. “Alright, trespassing maybe. But I didn’t break anything. And I bought you a new toaster!”

At this they did laugh some. They stayed there, talking and watching the clouds. Elsewhere the air began to grow colder, but up there on the hill stayed as warm and pleasant as a spring morning.

“Hm. I should get back. I have a ton of quizzes to grade,” Gawain said eventually.

Lancelot blinked awake from half-sleep. “Huh?”

“Quizzes to grade. Home. Going.”

“Oh.” He sat up. “Wait, you’re still a TA? Aren’t you-- you know, a God-King or something?”

“I like being a TA. I Like school,” Gawain said, almost defensively. “I like being, you know, a person. I plan to keep doing it.”

“Ah. Well I’m-- I’m glad. I think a TA would be a better friend and roommate than a God-King,” Lancelot decided, standing and setting off toward the car at a rambling pace.

Gawain caught up in a few paces. “So you’re planning to stay in London?”

“That’s where my new toaster is.” Lancelot waited for Gawain to stop laughing. “I mean, if you’ll have me.”

“Course,” Gawain walked through the tunnel without ducking. “I need you to, you know, reach high cabinets and stuff. And you’re good, company you know, I really missed you. When I was dead and such.”

“I missed you when you were dead.” Lancelot winced. “Sorry again for killing you.”

Gawain brushed him off. “It was a super long time ago. Who cares?”

* * *

  
  


(xxx)xxx-xxxx was added to Round Table 2: The Sequel

Bedivere changed (xxx)xxx-xxxx to Gawain

> Gawain: can my name be king gawain
> 
> Bedivere: sure!

Bedivere changed Gawain to On Thin Ice

> On Thin Ice: okay that's honestly fair.
> 
> On Thin Ice: Hi everybody :)
> 
> Lancelot: hi gawain so glad youre here
> 
> Mordred: did you take his phone to say hi to yourself
> 
> Lancelot: ...

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhh this is like. a super big project for me and i cant believe i really finished!!! thank you a million billion times to everyone who read and especially commented bc i would never have been motivated to finish other wise. id like to thank the academy, and rey for being so like. supportive of this funny little writing thing . ultimate hype person.
> 
> im going to write a few more fics in this universe. i purposely kept this fic gen but theres a lot of non gen stuff i wanna write for rt2 that will be in these side stories, as well as other gen stuff. hopefully one of these fics is gonna be a reynier collab which is super exciting bc theyre a writing genius.
> 
> anyway much love thank you for reading !!! have a happy new year heart heart heart heart heart


End file.
